We're Older Now, the Light is Dim
by Drarryiscannon
Summary: It has been more than a decade since the war. Lives have changed. Everyone is settled. Everyone is happy. On the surface. But there's more to life than happiness...isn't there? HPDM, DH Spoilers, non-epilogue compliant.
1. One

A/N: Just a tiny warning. There are some odd pairings in this one. They are fun though, trust me. It is also a 'Draco doesn't know' story. I hadn't read one in a while, probably because its not always believable that Draco Malfoy wouldn't realize he's gay...but, it's possible, so I tried it. Nonetheless, they aren't mine. They are the supreme overlord's characters, and I borrowed for them a while.

Title comes from the wonderful, and oddly appropriate, song "O Children" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.

* * *

Chapter One:

Blaise is talking again. He does that a lot. Harry had, at one point, found this to be an attractive quality. Blaise was excellent at explaining, at expounding, at finding lovely, flowery ways to say the simplest of things. In fact, there was a time where one sentence uttered at a party would be enough to have Harry pushing Blaise up against a wall the second they Apparated home. His stories would stick in Harry's head, and the way he said things made him swoon.

Now though? Now he had been with Blaise a long time.

Harry was trying to be patient, to not interrupt, which he had apparently been doing a lot lately. He resisted the urge to stop him mid-sentence. But it was getting difficult. Because the current subject of Blaise's 10 minute pontification was how Harry hadn't cleaned the kitchen right. Again. Finally, a long day and a long life overcomes his generally limited patience and he holds up his hands.

"B! I KNOW. I'm sorry. I'll put the pots in the right cupboard next time. I was trying to get it done before you got in."

And now he knows he's done it. The other man fixes him with dark eyes. Dark and angry. And without saying a word, storms away up the stairs. Harry is well and royally screwed. Because the only thing worse than a Zabini sermon was a Zabini silence.

Sighing to himself, he pulls his coat back on, scribbles a quick note just so they don't have another fight about him disappearing, and Apparates straight into the middle of muggle London. He definitely needs a drink.

His day has not improved since he woke up late, and he isn't sure why he thinks that going back into the world will help, but as he wanders the busy Thursday crowds at Shaftsbury Avenue, he realizes that this place has always been his go-to escape route. Ever since Hermione had brought he and Ron here in avoiding capture, escape has been what he associates with the large, bright, facelessness of the muggle theatre world. No one here knows him. No one will address him as 'Auror Potter'. No one here will stare and whisper, or ask him to investigate their "shifty uncle". Despite himself, he walks a little lighter for the next five minutes.

It isn't that he hasn't enjoyed his life. He's been quite happy. He and Blaise have been happy. For 10 years, he would never have said differently. Quite the opposite, in fact. Between his unwanted but still present fame, and Blaise's sparkling personality, they had been the life of every party, living large in a post-war world. He was perfectly fine working the field as a mid-level Auror, leaving his weekends free and his evenings early most days. Blaise ran the shop when it pleased him, and tried to change the world one dessert at a time.

Neither of them needed the money. Harry's parents money, combined with his war compensation meant that he would have been fine even without working. And although Blaise had been cut out of the Zabini fortune after his marriage to a "blood traitor", his romantic mother had secretly written him back into her will, so that when she unexpectedly passed away just weeks into her eighth marriage, Blaise was suddenly an utterly rich inheritor. They donated large amounts of their salaries, and still lived comfortably.

The rough patches at the beginning of their relationship had been from external forces; they fought through their friends and families, other people's disbelief that they could have changed so much. That the man who had once blatantly despised Gryffindor could have fallen for Harry Potter. That Harry Potter could have fallen for a blood purist. Nevertheless, Auror training (which Blaise had not finished) had turned them into friends. And then lovers. And then partners. Harry had pulled the other man into the light, and Blaise had helped him find joy again. The rest of their problems fell into the background, drawing them closer, strengthening them. In turn, that strength had changed the minds of those around them; slowly at first, then all at once, so that now, they could sit at the table at the Weasley's and have Blaise receive as much crushing attention from Molly as anyone else. Even Ginny, bolstered by Neville's quiet strength and tolerance of all, had overcome her trepidation, and the four of them had regular dinners together. Or at least, they had once.

He knows relationships have bumps. He knows he's being dramatic. But he can't help but feel that the tall, dark-haired, dark-skinned, swarthy man he fell in love with is altogether sick of him. That feeling weighs on his chest when he wakes up in the morning. When he goes to work. When he has to come home again. Lately, even when they have sex, it is nothing loving. It is quick and rough. More often than not, it is in the shower, where they don't look at each other, where sometimes, Blaise avoids any touch not necessary.

And the worst part, he thinks, running his hands through his hair as it whips in the cool evening breeze, the worst part is that he doesn't know what on earth has changed.

Realizing that this reminiscing is getting him nowhere, Harry quickens his pace, looking for a halfway decent pub that can help him forget for a time, if not fix. Suddenly, as he passes an unimposing ally, a sign he has never seen before catches his attention. Just a snake, on a hanging bar sign, in the middle of the ally. He waits at the corner, trying to decide, to see if anyone goes in or out, and notices a group of younger men waiver out the door…in robes. They cast a messy glamour, but Harry has already seen. Confused, but just intrigued enough that he has never found this wizarding pub before, he wanders in, settles down, and orders a double Blishen Firewhiskey, figuring there's no point in skimping on quality if he is drinking to forget.

Less than an hour later, his pocket warms to the feel of his old DA coin receiving a message. He sighs and drops his head to the bar. He pulls it out. One time, the use of these coins had made Harry's romantic side squirm and curl in heated approval. The darkness of their past made into a better thing. A thing to connect lovers. But this, too, had started to irritate Blaise. When Harry used it, he said he felt tethered; when he had to use it himself, Blaise argued Harry was being distant. The messages on the coin had become clipped and unwelcome. This time is no different. It says simply "H. Come home. Pls. B.", flashing in shortened words, one at a time. He had been wondering how long it would take to be summoned home. Slightly unsteady, he wanders out the door and Apparates away.

-XxXxX-

From behind the bar, Draco Malfoy removes himself from his hiding place behind the stock room door.

"Gavin. Was that freaking Harry Potter?"

"Dunno. Maybe. Drank four double whiskey's in 45 minutes, whoever he was. Blishen's too. Looked right worn down."

"Huh."

Draco hadn't seen Harry Potter since their first year after school. He hadn't stayed friends with many of the people he'd gone to school with. He'd been trying to get away from it all. Harry Potter and Blaise had been a surprise, but he had still ignored their wedding invitation, sent, he was sure, because of some misguided feeling of propriety on Zabini's part.

"Well. I'm out. That last shipment is all set. I'll come in early tomorrow to set it all up."

"'K, Boss," Gavin muttered. He was a man of few words. Draco loved him. The best manager he had ever hired, and he could only hope, the last he'd need until he sold the freaking pub.

Hurrying out into the cold street, and Apparating to the front of his apartment building, Draco tries to ignore the niggling feeling that he is a bit shaken by seeing The Chosen One. The feeling is still there, though, as he wanders in the front door, and immediately falls over a box of Quidditch balls.

"Fuck. K?!" he called into the darkness, shaking out his shins and pulling himself to his feet again. "K! Katie? Quidditch equipment. Door. We have HAD this conversation."

"Draco? Upstairs. Watch the case by the door. I forgot to move it."

Simply sighing as a small smile played at his mouth, he pulls the box away from the entryway and wonders to himself just when his beautiful, two-story penthouse had become a Quidditch shed, but not really angry so much as resigned, he heads upstairs to find his wife. Who is sprawled on the couch, looking squarely at the ceiling with a furrowed expression.

"Bad match?" he muses.

"The worst. I CANNOT get that freaking seeker into shape. And I took a Bludger to the foot again," she mutters, pointing to the peas sitting on her ankle.

"K. How many times. You are a witch. Heal it."

Grinning wickedly, she eyes him closely and responds, "When I heal them before you get home, you don't believe it happened."

"Not true."

He puts his hands on her ankle, easily heals the slight sprain, and nestles down beneath her feet. She responds by spinning around, curling into her usual spot under his arm, head on his chest. It's comforting. But it's just that. He's never felt quite right about Katie's comforting presence. From day one, he had felt like he accidently put her in the same role he would have put a dog, had he ever deigned to allow such a thing into his home.

"Everything okay at the hell hole?" she asks lightly, flipping through a glossy coloured order book looking for new robes.

"Hmm. Except for the fact that I still own it. And Potter was there."

That was enough for Katie to sit up and look at him.

"Huh. Really. You haven't seen him since…school? Right? After we skipped his wedding?" she quirks, throwing an ever judgemental eyebrow at him.

"Nope. And I didn't 'see' him today," he looks at his feet before mumbling. "I hid."

"You HID? Like a five year old? From a man you always used to best in an argument? Why?"

"I didn't feel like…fighting."

"Draco. You have changed. Why are you still afraid of the past?"

Its not a real question. She settles almost immediately back onto his chest. But it hits him hard today. He has no idea why, but it does. As though, for the first time, he is realizing just how afraid of the past he really is.

"K? Are you ever…do you regret saying yes when my mother…are we happy?"

"Whoa. That was a lot of questions in one breath, Dear. Especially since you just walked in the door."

He suspects she would rather drop the question. Seeing his face, however, she sits up with a sigh, facing him on the couch, hands on his lap.

"I am going through this again for your sake. I'm not sure why we need to, after eight years of marriage. But you seem to need it tonight, so I will humour you, 'cuz I know you are going through something. So lets see. One, yes, we got married because your mother asked my father, and it became a bizarrely archaic pureblood…thing. But frankly, I just feel lucky I did not get traded for six goats."

Draco laughed and she continued.

"Two, yes, I did actually have to agree to this marriage. And I did, because I really liked you by that point. You helped me figure out my life, if you remember correctly, and by the time you bothered to notice me, we were already engaged. Three, I have never once regretted being married to you. I love you. We are solid. I sometimes wish you would let the people we went to school with see that you have changed, but I can't make you. And four, I am happy, Coco, but I can't tell you if we are happy."

"Don't call me Coco. And thanks. But- last one I promise- we aren't…normal. Right?"

"Nope. Get over it."

A predictable, K kind of answer. Everything from the unquestioning reassurance, the lack of what could have been a fight. The use of the absurd nickname she insisted on using when they were truly alone. They had been together for much of what Draco considered his adult life. And she had never had any reason to trust him, to marry him, to stay when she learned of all the things he had done. She still bore the mark of one of his mistakes on her arm, from her wrist to her elbow. Curse marks, after all, do not fade. But, she was always there; patient and kind, and yet quick witted and more than a match for him. Always willing to place that scar against his own marred forearm and say, 'the past is the past, Coco. Just the past.' Kissing and caressing until he gave in and let her knead the tension away from his eyes.

Katie Bell. Katie Bell Malfoy. He could have done far worse. After Blaise and Harry, Draco and Katie had kind of flown beneath the radar as far as 'strange post-Hogwarts relationships' were concerned, and they had managed to make it work. After the war, school alliances had sort of disappeared anyway. And Draco really had begun to make amends by the time he'd met Katie. He had made peace with the part of himself his parents had created; the first and most important reason being that he had completely separated himself from them. So, when his mother had shown up after a year of complete radio silence, saying that he could do far worse than Kathryn Bell for a match (pure blood family, ties in the ministry, Quidditch star in her own rights, etc. etc.), he had been shocked and resistant. For about five minutes. Katie was already a friend by then. And his mother was, regrettably, correct. He was starting to feel the pressure of his friend's weddings and relationships, and their all-consuming time-wasting projects. So, in the same week, he had become engaged, and taken over a bar.

It had been a weird three days.

And he did love her. He really did. She was a constant, a staple, a rock, and other very firm, collecting, stable things. He loved her. He just wasn't sure that he loved her right. It had never been burning passion. It had never been sex and drive. It had never turned into what he saw in other couples. It worked for them, Katie always argued. We don't need that. We have our friendship, and it's more important. He had agreed with her for a while.

Still. This month had been bad. He was unhappy. He had no right to be unhappy, and no right to be given a reprieve even if he was. He had been given more than he had ever earned. A life of relative solitude. Forgiveness for his sins. A removal of his father from his life. His dissatisfaction had no place, no home, and yet it sat, like a disgusting toad on his chest; blurping when he rose each day and croaking away when he when he lay down at night.

He had been quick to place the blame on the bar. The Bar he had unwittingly taken over. The bar he hated more often than he loved it, but could not bring himself to sell to just anyone, having built it back up by himself. The bar Severus would have loathed, yet visited as often as possible.

And then he had seen Harry Potter. Draco was beginning to think that there was a problem with that feeling in the pit of his stomach. And he was far too logical to ignore it.

"I'm going to go to bed. I think I may be getting the flu. My stomach hurts." Logical, yes. But, even after all these years, also more stubborn than wise. "Love."

"Love, too. Night."

As he unceremoniously dumped his wife's head on the couch, and slunk off to bed, images of scars and past lives bounced in his head.


	2. Two

Chapter 2:

* * *

Harry opened the front door to the house with a little more fervor than he had intended, and then giggled in a _very _unmanly way. He supposes he is not as young as he used to be, and that the Firewhiskey has gone straight to his head.

"Hey," says a voice which is much more subdued than it had been a few hours ago.

"Hey," Harry says, deciding to be bold. It's the only way to excuse his tipsiness.

"So. I'm going to say it. We need a break."

"Wha...Blaise, I'm sorry about…"

"Not about the kitchen. It hasn't been in a while, has it? This is not going well. I'm not saying quit. But. We aren't happy. And we need a break. Time to think. Time to…try. Time to try other things. I was your first proper…relationship. I think you may be regretting that. And no. Don't. Don't pull a 'Harry' with this one, and try to apologize. It isn't anyone's fault, and I have some thinking to do as well."

Harry isn't sure there is anything left to say this time, and having successfully not interrupted, looks down at his feet, sees a suitcase, and smiles grimly.

"I'm going to my step-brother's. Should be a nice gloating point for him. He thinks we got married too quickly. I love you, HP, but I think this is a better plan than hating and loathing and fighting each other 90% of the time, don't you?"

Five minutes and a peck on the cheek later, Harry has stayed stubbornly in the same spot in his entryway, wondering what the fuck just happened.

Suddenly very sober, Harry wanders into the kitchen, makes tea, and settles down with his head in his hands, leaning on the top of an old _Prophet_. As his tea gets steadily colder, he tries and fails to make sense of what he is feeling. He can't. He just feels…empty. But right. Sad. But right. Oddly….resigned. Sighing to himself, casting a warming spell on his tea, and lifting his head, he lets his eyes settle on the open page beneath him.

"Need a pub to call home? Draco Malfoy would like you to buy his," Harry reads aloud, for the sake of filling the silence. Reading further, an image catches his eye. A simple, elegant serpent wrapped around a wooden sign. Hanging over the head of a surly, folded arm, utterly beautiful blond man.

"Huh."

-XxXxx-

Over the next week, Draco spends every day at the freaking bar. He tends bar. He cleans the bar. He wanders the floor. It has been packed since the stupid article, but no other buyers have appeared as a result and he isn't sure what the plan is now.

And the fact that Harry Potter has appeared, for at least an hour, every day this week, is not helping his mood. Luckily too busy to hide every day, he has delved deep within his past self and pulled out his mask of indifference to wear during those moments when Potter graces the bar with his extremely depressing, morose presence. He isn't sure what is happening, other than Potter is almost always very drunk by the time he leaves, and has definitely figured out that Draco has something to do with the pub.

Finally, it is Monday again, the quiet night in the pub business, and Draco sits down with the books in front of him, and is dismayed to see improvement in the numbers before him. Not helping. He wanders out into the early evening, books tucked into his bag, with a plan to go home that he almost immediately puts aside in favour of apparating to the familiar café at the other end of the city.

"Ginevra?" he calls into the near empty shop. She appears from the back room and flashes him a tired smile.

"Haven't seen you in three whole days. I was beginning to worry that you'd become guilty about your secret obsession with my dark roast."

"Just tastes criminal, doesn't make me guilty."

"No, but the fact that you willingly come here and talk to me, but won't let me tell my friends, that _should _make you feel guilty, and it concerns me that it doesn't."

She places the aforementioned dark roast in front of him and leans on the counter.

"I'm afraid your brilliant scheme didn't work. No buyers after the stupid article."

"Malfoy. You are exasperating. It's been a week. Give it time."

"Mhmm."

"Drop that eyebrow, you big baby. It's fine. So, listen. Want to come to dinner with Katie after the game on Saturday?"

"No. It's been 'no' for the past seven years of legacy games. Why would it change now?"

"Because I thought maybe you could just allow yourself to admit that we are friends now, and that you and your wife are welcome _together_ in our home, and that we all know that Hogwarts…well, it was all a long time ago. Plus…Blaise won't be there."

The last sentence is dropped as though it doesn't need explanation, which is ridiculous, so Draco merely quirks his eyebrow impossibly higher until she sighs and explains.

"He's...taking a break from home right now. He and Harry are working some stuff out. He owl'ed me yesterday to say he's going to skip dinner. So, if you can handle having to see Harry, and Pansy and Hermione and Ron, you should come with Katie instead of disappearing after the game."

"I've seen Potter a lot this week, actually. Keeps coming into the bar."

"Yes. He does like his whiskey. I suspect he's not doing very well. I am guessing you _seeing_ him doesn't mean you are _talking _to him?"

"I just don't care, Ginevra. And I am not coming. I don't need to see those people and hear them judge me, and deal with…all of it."

"Fine. I told Katie I'd ask."

As the week wears on, drawing him closer and closer to the annual Hogwarts reunion Quidditch match, Draco feels his mood spiral ever closer to despair. He hates this day, but he long ago promised K that he would make an attempt for this one day each year. He usually just went, hid in the stands, bore the few handshakes with past acquaintances, avoided the people he actually knew, and Apparated home while Katie went to the after game celebration and dinner at the Longbottom's. Seven years in a row. And he hated every moment.

-XxXxx-

Harry wakes up in an empty, cold bed with a ridiculous headache, wondering why on earth his frigging alarm is going off. He rolls over to investigate, and curses his past self who has cello-taped the legacy game player's invitation to his lamp, clearly in anticipation of being unable to drag his sorry ass out of bed.

"Really need to lay off the whiskey," he mutters to…absolutely no one. He misses Blaise. And today, he is going to have to see him, plus every one of their friends, and other people who he only sees once a year, and pretend things are relatively normal for the sake of appearances. He is grateful for the first time ever that they don't have children.

He gets out of bed, and makes it to the Portkey just in time, to the exasperated sighs of Hermione, and they land a few feet from the familiar-yet-new grounds of a post war Hogwarts. Pulling his Burgundy and Gold robes on, he waves to Ron and Hermione, and wanders off to find Ginny, who is also playing, so they can figure out the schedule for the games that day.

Despite himself, he has a great day. The Gryffindor legacy team wins three of their round robin games, and between the crowd and the sun and the Quidditch, he is having an excellent time. Elated, he heads off the pitch for the last time, heading to get changed before the current school teams play for the jovial 'championship'.

"Harry," from behind him, a rough but achingly familiar voice forces him to pause.

"Hey, B. How are you?"

"I don't know. Can we talk?"

Nodding, he follows Blaise underneath the Quidditch stands, and familiar memories rush back. Of less serious times, of the swish of his lover's robes, of the sweet haze of the past. Blaise looks tired, but happier somehow. Turning suddenly, he rakes his eyes over Harry's windswept hair, open robes, sheen of exertion, and his eyes glaze over as he seems to lose control, pushing Harry roughly against the wood of the Quidditch stands. Harry feels he should stop him, knows they are at least partially exposed, but can't seem to stop _himself_, especially when Blaise kisses him fully, hard, full of emotion, and time apart, and unspoken conversations.

"Missed you," he whispers into Harry's neck. "Quidditch robes."

It is only then that Harry remembers Blaise's heated admission years ago, six months into their then-new relationship, that he had been picturing him in his fantasies since seeing Harry in his robes after a game in sixth year. And the memory shuts his brain off. Tells him to stop thinking, and deal with the negatives of what is happening later. He reaches across, pulling Blaise deeper into the kiss, pulling up the hem of his shirt, seeking familiar, smooth, hot skin, gasping slightly when he feels Blaise do the same, then pull away from the kiss to trail his fingers up Harry's spine, lifting shirt higher under robes, pushing loose, athletic shorts aside under his sure and steady hands, hands Harry knows better than his own.

He mutters something remotely like 'Blaise wait', but he doesn't wait, partially, he suspects, because he knows Harry well enough to know there is no real heart in the muttering. Instead, he continues moving lower and places himself into that vulnerable position, and Harry can't remember the last time he was there, and _fuck_ those questioning eyes looking at him for permission. Harry threads his fingers through hair and leans his head against wooden stability, waiting for the familiar tongue to dip into the precum at his head, and gasping roughly as that same tongue runs lightly up the vein to the very base of Harry's spine, fingers needling almost imperceptibly at spots that have not been held in this familiar way in _solong._

Partly because of need, and partly because Blaise is everywhere he needs all at once, years of practice kicking into overdrive after months of neglect, Harry is shivering and coming into Blaise's perfect, hot mouth before he can even warn him, and Blaise does not relent until Harry's knees buckle beneath him, and he is barely able to continue to stand, wouldn't be without the solid form of the stand holding up his back.

When his husband finally makes his way back upwards, all the while holding Harry close to him, burying his head in his robes, inhaling deeply, Harry barely remembers to breathe. Because he has absolutely no fucking clue what to do next. He knows they are still not okay. He knows things cannot just go back to what they were, but he also knows that this man before him knows his soul better than he does, and he knows that felt _fuckinggood._ So now what?

-XxXxx-

Draco _knows_ he should not be watching. Knows with every fibre of his soul that this is wrong. That he has crossed some perverse line that he wasn't aware he was flirting with. But he finds numerous justifications as he attempts to drag his eyes away from the sight of Blaise and Harry in the middle of…well, that. He tells himself they shouldn't be in the open. That anyone could have seen. That he thinks it's awful, gross, lurid, deprived. But there is no denying the fact that he has _chosen_ to continue standing there, impossibly hard and unable to stop the pace of his quickening breath, hot and heady all over, sure that he is beet red. When Potter throws his head against the pillar in what is clearly his release, he can no longer bear it, and manages to drag his eyes away and head towards his Portkey home, grateful for the cold weather and his thick robes as he attempts not to catch the eye of anyone near him.

By the time Katie floos home from Ginny and Neville's, he has wanked and showered, and wanked in the shower, and is still so beyond horny that Katie barely gets her boots off before he has her pushed against a wall, dragging her fancy 'out for dinner' shirt off and throwing it onto the floor with uncharacteristic-for-Draco carelessness, pulling her by her jean pockets onto the couch, pausing long enough to take off his own loose T-shirt, long enough for her to roughly scrape his name from kiss swollen lips.

He knows her, so completely, and in no time, his attentions and sucking and kissing has her gasping his name again, tugging at hair, clawing at skin, leaving possessive marks. Whispers into her moist form, 'need you', and delves that need into the familiar folds at a punishing speed, crying out her name with clasped hands, and head thrown back, before either of them know what is happening. Collapses onto her chest, curls into the sofa with her panting still. He loves her. He feels whole, everything is complete, a giant puzzle connected with intricate parts.

He has never felt more confused.

-XxXxx-

Blaise shows up randomly at Harry's door for sporadic, wonderful, heated fuckfests (because he honestly can't think of what else to call them), and he is relatively sure that they haven't had sex as good as what has been happening since they were both 20. And he has never felt more guilty, and torn, and heartbroken. Because at the end of it all, they still haven't talked, and the things that were destroying them are still there when Blaise quietly leaves in the middle of the night, and Harry feels stupid and cheap and used. Finally, he can't take it anymore. He needs to talk to someone. Someone who will, very likely, not judge.

"Gin? You here?" He gazes around the café's back room door, and marvels again at how Ginny manages to keep the place open; it's always so empty. She assures him that he just arrives at bizarre times, and that take away is all the rage anyways. He can't question her, because he knows that Neville is doing fine financially, and that really, the café was just a way to keep Ginny busy after her injury shortened her flying career and the kids were both at school.

Forty minutes and three cups of coffee later, he feels lighter, and knows he was right to talk to Ginny, who gives him harsh, but absolutely necessary advice. But, he has to pee. When he re-emerges from the loo a short time later, he is relatively sure he does not hide his startled expression at a blond head laughing fully and unashamedly at something Ginny has just said, as she stands beside his seated form at the counter. The same blond head stops short when he notices Harry and an almost imperceptible mask glazes over his eyes.

"Malfoy," Harry nods.

"Potter."

The tone in both voices immediately brings them back to their 14-year-old selves, drawing on emotions neither has felt in a decade, and neither know what to say next.

"Jesus, you two. Grow the fuck up. Wait, I'll help. Harry, this is Draco. Draco, this is Harry. Harry is married to a Slytherin. And Harry, Draco is married to a Gryffindor. Clearly neither of you are still attached to those stupid school rules, so can you please just shake hands and move on, as you both have so many times before?"

Perhaps it is because of her very no-nonsense tone, or perhaps it is because it is better than standing here in stunned silence not knowing what to do, but either way Harry and Draco do shake hands. Which forces Harry to look at Malfoy's face. And notice grey, piercing eyes, lined with happy creases that had never before existed, and notice the lack of hardness or hollowed darkness that had marked this face the last time he had properly seen it this close. In fact, if memory serves, everything about this man is softer than the boy he had been; soft fabric clothing, soft edges to eyes, soft longer-than-necessary blond hair.

"Nice to meet you Harry," Draco says in a dry tone, with that old familiar quirked eyebrow which has Harry disarmed and choking on a laugh.

"Thank you for the life blood Ginevra. Till later."

Draco heads towards the door, nodding to Harry. Who immediately turns to Ginny. She merely shrugs and explains that she is friends with Katie, and it just happened one day that she and Draco seemed to be friends too.

"He's changed a lot, you know," she says this almost to no one, as though she is only just realizing it, but the tone is a little too cautious and gives her away.

"Gin. Draco and I are _not _going to be friends."

_Although, he is more beautiful than he used to be_, his brain finishes uselessly.

"Stop sleeping with him Harry. Until you sort things out," she intones nonchalantly, but the change in subject bristles and he nods, thanking her, stealing a kiss on her cheek, and leaving before he can process anything too much.

-XxXxx-

Draco isn't sure how he makes it out of the café so calmly. Must have been years of pure-blood politeness coming to his aid, because he actually wants to throw up. He can't feel his fingers where Potter grazed them, and the haunting feeling of emerald eyes exploring his face is causing his breath to hitch even now that he isn't looking directly into them. He can't handle the fact that the subject of his current shower fantasies has suddenly stood in front of him, and laughed at a stupid joke he made, and been altogether too close. Especially since he isn't quite sure what to do about the fact that he has been thinking of that Quidditch day far too much over the last two weeks.

And suddenly, without a doubt, he knows what he has to do. He has just confirmed his suspicion, and the writhing in the pit of his stomach tells him he is on the right track. The thought pushes his nausea over the edge, and he does throw up, just making it to the bathroom of the flat before necessary. He lies on the cold tile and tries to figure out what the fuck to say.

He has been there for two hours when Katie floos in. It's not nearly long enough. He is emotional, and angry at himself, and a mess. His hair is disheveled, his robes are askew, and he is fully aware that many nights of not sleeping properly are making his eyes seem wild- at least, they will seem wild to her, the one who knows every line, every wrinkle of his regular face.

Without meaning for it to go this way, he is aware that he rages. He yells the information at her. He was angry that she was so calm. Sitting there on the couch, hands in her lap, gazing in his general direction but not actually meeting his eyes. He contemplates knocking over a floor lamp just for the sake of a reaction, but somehow manages to stop himself, storming instead out of the room. Trapping himself pointlessly in the kitchen, he sits messily at the kitchen table, head in hands, tears he hasn't felt since he was a child stinging his eyes, threatening to embarrass him even further. He hears her standing by the door, but doesn't look up. Hears a sigh as she sits across from him.

"Draco. I've known you were gay since the day I met you. I kept waiting for you to tell me, so I could agree to marry you anyway. I know that's crazy but I already loved you. I thought we could just make it work. You could see whoever you wanted. I wouldn't have to keep dating, which I hated. I would have a friend and partner for the stuff I needed someone for. And you would get your mother off your back about marriage…when I realized you didn't actually realize, I figured it couldn't be something you were told. I was surprised actually. You're so astute, so in tune with who you are, so fucking composed all the time. So then I decided maybe I was just wrong. And then…I think us, the being happy part; well, it meant we made it this far without... You didn't have to think about it, so you just didn't. You didn't have to explore. Experiment. Figure out who you actually were. But you haven't been happy in a while. You keep trying, and I appreciate that, but we both know it's not about the bar."

They sit in stunned, unhappy silence for a minute while Draco decides what he should say next.

"I don't think I'm gay actually. I think I just have... varied tastes. I don't know how else I could love you, and sleep with you. And."

A short bark of laughter, "Well that makes sense doesn't it? Malfoys don't settle for less than what they want. Why would they choose anything as common as one sided attraction?"

"Kathryn. Why aren't you mad? I... Well, I feel like I've cheated. Or something."

"Oh, I am nothing as simple as 'mad', Draco Tiberius Narcissus Malfoy. I am livid. I am despairing. I am heartbroken and confused about why you didn't trust me enough to think that I could handle this without the yelling. And I feel vaguely like I am watching the end of my marriage unveil itself at my feet, and I am furious that, through it all, you have the audacity to be the one who is unravelling. Again."

As Katie falls silent, he is stung. She has been processing, listening, once again having to hold them both together. How many times had she had to do that. How many times had he been the one flying off the handle.

And most of all, where did they go now.


	3. Three

Chapter 3:

* * *

Harry stops sleeping with Blaise. He makes them talk. They work through a lot. They solve far less. They realize the problem is change; neither of them are that innocent boy that fell for the forbidden. They are losing the thread of what they have in common. First love has faded, and both of them realize that the things they used to fuel their relationship for a decade have faded to black. Most people, he argues, grow together, find a way to change together, to become their adult relationship rather than fight against it. Well, at least that's what Ron and Hermione, Ginny and Neville, many others have done…but he supposes the comparison doesn't really help them.

Finally, Blaise simply says it.

"Harry. I love you. I just don't particularly _like _you."

And the sentence is so very Zabini that Harry laughs. And laughs and laughs. And eventually, Blaise laughs too. Just like that, they decide. And they pack Blaise's things together, and move him into his own flat, away from his brother's couch. The whole process takes less than two weeks, but Harry is drunk every night, every night apparating home from The Serpent (which had quickly become the only pub he visited) on unsteady feet, falling into a far-too-big bed. It is right, it is all completely necessary, but Harry can't help feeling that he is barely in one piece.

Somewhere in the midst of this chaos, he realizes he has a Malfoy shadow. A concerned Malfoy shadow, who seems to be the one cutting him off before he feels he's had enough to drink. A Malfoy shadow, who, after the sixth straight night in his pub, wanders over with a plate of _fucking delicious _chips, leaving them unceremoniously beside his arm. A Malfoy shadow that is _definitely_ sleeping in his own bar. This last suspicion is confirmed when Ginny shows up at Harry's house of a Friday morning with café goodies and a myriad of cleaning supplies, insisting he sit with coffee and cake and water in the middle of the kitchen floor while she cleans and gossips all around him.

"They are 'taking some time to reconfigure their marriage'?"

"I know right? Such a Malfoy way of saying something. But yes. Something about a realisation, and different expectations, or something. And now Draco is staying in the bar. Which is inconvenient, because I'm pretty sure he still doesn't want to actually _own_ the bar."

"He's annoying. He keeps…keeping an eye on me. Or something."

Explaining to Ginny about the shadow is infuriating because she keeps laughing.

"You sound like you want to punch him. But he is probably just concerned that he seems to have a new resident drunk, one who is under 30, famous, and quite a mess. That's a liability if I ever heard one."

He has no response. He's angry, but she's right.

That evening, he takes himself to the pub, but does not accept his usual whiskey, instead asking if the owner is in. The silent barman points to the back room and he wanders back, still in his coat.

"Mal…Draco?" He calls.

"One second!" the voice comes from the top of a ladder, whose occupant shifts to see who is calling, and freezes mid retreat.

"Potter? Something you need?"

"Just.…I just saw Ginny. I wanted to know if you…I just broke up with Blaise. I thought you should hear it from me."

"Ginevra already told me. Broke up? You are married. That is not a break up. We are not fourteen."

Harry wants to be mad, but the pain and exhaustion in the other man's voice is just enough to make him feel like he understands exactly what Draco means.

"We need to talk."

"About what Potter? Commiserate in our common pain? Reminisce about the glory days? Rehash old wounds? What can _we _possibly 'talk' about?"

"I want to buy your pub."

In stunned silence, he stares down Harry's pointed (now angry) glare. And does not move. Because there is no way that Harry fucking Potter, in all his green-eyed, severely emotional glory, actually wants to buy the bar.

"Listen, Potter. I've been keeping an eye on you because Blaise asked me to. From what I've seen, you are in absolutely no condition to buy a sandwich ninety percent of the time, let alone a business."

Harry is oddly comforted by the acerbic sneer that clearly has not completely disappeared in the past decade, and he finds his voice.

"I've made some rash mistakes over the years. You should still make an attempt to trust me. I know its not that easy, but we aren't dead yet. I am making changes. Now. So, I want to talk to you about buying this bar. And you; you need to start drinking more."

He wanders out to the bar, convinces the bartender to give him a bottle, and heads back to Malfoy's office. Where he finds a reserved Draco sitting very stiffly behind a desk. He is dead serious about buying this bar, but he is also sick of the self-righteousness of his blond shadow. The dark circles he has are clearly marked on the other man's face as well, and the wrinkled state of his jumper is so un-Malfoy (or would have been of the younger version Harry knows) that it is clear that he isn't hiding his pain well.

"So, let's start with what happened with Katie."

Three hours later, they are both drunk. Draco isn't sure why or how he let this happen, but they are drunk, and he has stopped sitting on his office couch/bed, and is on the floor, holding his jumper out in front of him, too warm and more comfortable in his white t-shirt. A shirt he is pretty sure only Katie has ever seen. They have been talking for ages. He knows more about Harry Potter than he ever has before. And he may or may not have shared just as much information. He has not, however, come completely clean about what has separated him from his wife, sticking instead to his story of vague unhappiness.

He is annoyed because he is in less pain. For the first time in weeks, he is tired. He rests his head on the seat of the couch, and falls asleep without remembering why that is a bad idea.

Hours later, Harry wakes up at an uncomfortable angle. His hand is resting ever so slightly in worn green jumper. Worn green jumper attached to soft, feathered hair. He curls more comfortably in his sleepiness until suddenly jerking himself awake with realization. Unfortunately, this also has the disastrous result of waking a sleeping Malfoy. Which, given history, is likely a very bad idea.

Draco practically leaps up as though scalded, and looks around, wand drawn pointlessly. Harry uses all his self-restraint and remains in his open, nonchalant, sleepy posture.

"Potter."

"Draco," he replies emphatically.

"What happened?"

"It's called sleep. Hear it's good for you. I have to get home. We can talk about the bar later." And he Apparates on the spot before Draco can respond, thankful for the apparent lack of wards on the back room.

In his living room, he shakes the fog from his head and seeks out tea.

"What the fuck are you doing, Potter?" He asks himself out loud in what is unmistakably a very Malfoy way.

-XxXxX-

Potter shows up at pub for five consecutive days, asking about the sale. Draco manages to avoid the discussion for four, until Potter shows up with a Muggle lawyer on Thursday. And demands a meeting. And he honestly isn't sure what the hell is going on.

"Why are you doing this, Potter?"

"I read the article. You need to get rid of the bar. It has something to do with Katie, and I don't want her life to be…like mine. You two were happy. You should be again."

"Ah, I get it. Fucking Potter trying to save everyone but himself. Again."

"You, Mr. Malfoy, need to accept his offer," the Muggle lawyer tries. He obviously has no idea what he is talking about. Draco will work the bar until he is a skeleton in the back room before he sells it to Potter's sanctimonious motives. Even if he can't stop his eyes from drifting _down_, and his brain keeps helpfully supplying the memory of the Quidditch games.

The lawyer tries again, "You've had this place up for sale for three months, with no prospective buyers. It's a terrible area, it's hidden from the street, and it has no real sign outside even _indicating _what it is."

Draco watches as Potters mouth twitches into a half smile; they are both aware that the features this Muggle is listing are precisely why the Serpent is an excellent wizarding pub. He has never really had trouble keeping the place full.

"I will consider it," Draco answers, mostly to get the Muggle out of his face.

Unfortunately, the slight window Draco gives him seems to spur Potter on, and he turns up at around 7 each evening for the next three nights. And for some reason (impossible loneliness or boredom, coupled with curiosity about what has happened to this man and Blaise for the past decade) they talk. Really talk. Because regardless of whether their 'enemies' status in school was based on anything other than childhood spite (and, you know, evil dark magic on his father's part…and disgusting blood loyalty and…), they had never once had a civil conversation. It was strange, but more than welcome. Draco needed the chance to talk to someone who wasn't going to judge him, who didn't know everything that had been going on, and Potter seemed oddly willing to listen. And hearing stories of his former best friend, having clearly changed so much and yet not at all, warmed Draco's spirit more than the ubiquitous whiskey they drank.

He is careful, however, to keep distance between them, to walk out of the bar early, all the while not really knowing why he was being so careful. He knew for sure that his weird…feeling towards Potter was one sided, hidden (because he was a Malfoy), and not going to be an issue. Unbidden, Katie's voice was in Draco's head. Telling him he had changed, that it was the past, that he was allowed to show people that he wasn't the same obnoxious 12 year old whose father heard about everything. Yet, he felt practiced caution creep back in when Potter laughed at his jokes, or smiled unreservedly.

Harry didn't know what the hell he was doing still, but he was becoming increasingly concerned that Malfoy would agree to sell him the bar, taking away his excuse to drop in and see the man. And more frustratingly, he wasn't entirely sure why that was a problem. Was he just lonely? Was he coming unstuck? Because no matter what else, he really _should not _be enjoying evenings with Draco Malfoy. _Enough_, he thinks one night.

"Malfoy. I think we need to figure this bar thing out. We are almost friends now, right? So tell me. You do want to sell it right? You keep saying you don't want it, but my lawyer says you've had six offers. How many of them were wizard offers? Why the hell won't you just get rid of it?"

Draco looks at his pint, refusing to meet Harry's eyes, picking at non-existent fluffs on his sleeves. Harry, having learned better from both Blaise, and these nights with Malfoy, waits. Eventually, Draco clears his throat.

"It was Sev's," Draco finally says. He utters these words so quietly that he can't be sure Potter has heard him.

"Sev…as in Snape. How did Snape own a pub…no wait, better question, how did you end up with Snape's pub?"

"Long story."

Harry simply looks at him, as though pointing out that neither of them actually have a life at the moment.

"I don't know. I've never told anyone about it. Just Katie."

But when Harry simply looks down at his glass, he finds himself going on in a strange halted manner, that of someone who has never, ever told this story. "He left it to me. After the war. It was his brother's…squib brother's…he didn't mean to inherit it, and it had…well, it was run down. When he died, he left it to my family. We were all…close. He had a weird will. Things went all over the place. For some reason, I got the pub; when we finished school, I was a bit of a mess. I tried going to school for healing, because of potions, but I was too…I don't know, twitchy? It didn't work out. Well, I guess sort of. That's where I met Katie."

Draco stops, pausing for breath, and making the mistake of looking up, at Harry, who is staring directly at him. Something hitches in his chest. How had he never noticed those eyes at school? They cannot have been so ridiculously disarming back then. Confusingly, Harry breaks the gaze first, pushing a hand into unruly hair and exhaling.

Draco sees no choice but to go on, "So, I fixed this place up. Turned it into something. I lost a lot back then, I just don't think I was ready to let go of something that was just _mine_. I'd never had anything given without strings attached before. It was very strange. I thought I was ready to let it go. I thought that the fact that I never did anything else was making me resent this place. That it was why I was unhappy."

"And now?"

Draco just laughs, "Now? Now I am realizing that I have no clue who I am or what I am doing."

Snorting, Harry puts down his glass, reaches out on impulse, puts his hand to Draco's arm, "Mate. Welcome to adulthood."

Almost immediately, Harry realizes that the hand was a mistake. An extremely ill-advised, Gryffindor impulse. Because he can count on one hand the number of times he has come in physical contact with Draco Malfoy, and none of those times had ended well for either of them. And because he now had absolutely no clue how to extract himself from the situation. Or why, exactly, the very pale skin behind Draco's ears has gone bright red.

Sensation is a tricky thing. He is on fire, and he can't sort out why. Draco reasons that he rarely has contact with anyone who isn't Katie. He has few friends, no colleagues that aren't Gavin (who believes a head nod is intimate), and doesn't take public transport or spend a lot of time on the street; there are very few moments where anyone actually _touches_ him. It has nothing to do, he argues with his subconscious, with the fact that Harry's eyes are very firmly stuck on Draco, or that his fingers keep twitching but not pulling away, or the fact that he has seen where those fingers have been. Or that Harry hasn't moved since putting his hand, rather innocently, on Draco's arm.

As though by unspoken contract, both men pull away at the same time. And agree to go without another word. Despite the fact that Draco feels he has just unveiled a part of his soul, he has never been more grateful to get away.

Until the next day, when Potter decides they need to talk about what happened. The fucking Gryffindor git.

"Malfoy. Actually, no. Draco. We should talk, or something. About yesterday. Except, I don't know what to say."

For some reason, although he has never really needed a much of a reason to be honest, the earnest look on Potter's face instantly makes him angry. He is livid. In less than a month, the fucking golden boy has unravelled his life. He can't help but feel like this isn't the first time. Here he is, inserting himself into his quiet peacefulness, his carefully constructed life, making a huge mess of it with his caring, his saviour attitude, his green eyes and _fuckingridiculous_ hair.

"POTTER. Enough! Just stop! It has nothing to do with you. We didn't even SEE each other for a decade and now you care enough to fix all my problems. So enough, seriously, Potter. Just enough."

"Harry."

Draco isn't sure when the other man got so close. There is too little distance between them in this stupid back room.

"It's Harry. And whose fault is it that we didn't see each other? Blaise tried to keep you close, you pushed him away."

"Maybe I had had enough being a part of the golden circle, hm? Maybe I was tired of being the bad guy. Have you ever tried to reinvent yourself? To escape your fate?"

"Yes."

A word so quiet that Draco stops staring at the spot above Harry's head and looks directly into his face. "As a matter of fact, yes. But I have always found that keeping your friends around helps. You need more friends, Draco."

Draco thinks he makes a noise of assent, but he isn't sure. Harry (_fuck_Potter) is less than a foot away. For some reason, his brain supplies the information that it would be very easy (too easy) to just…lean in.

"Out, Potter. Leave this office. Now."

Potter's eyes flash with what is first confusion, then hurt, and finally anger. He doesn't even bother storming away, but Apparates on the spot.

Draco stumbles to the couch, and lets out a breath he was not aware he had been holding.

-XxX-

_FuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK. _It's not a particularly useful line of thought, but it is all that Harry's brain seems to be thinking. He had finally broken down a Malfoy defensive wall, and now he had gone and fucked it all up again within a 24 hour window. Classic Harry Potter.

_But, _his subconscious offered._ But why does it even matter? Why do you care?_

"Because I like him, obviously," he admits to the empty apartment. "Merlin knows why."

"Well, he's likely gorgeous and complicated and completely out of your league."

Harry, jumping about six feet, spins around, wand drawn, before sighing and relaxing his pose. "You know, B, apparently we are wizards. Some of us are even wizards who usually deal with not so great people. Sneaking into someone else's house may be a crappy plan."

"So, who is he?" Harry is surprised by the relaxed, wicked grin on his ex-husband's face. Even more surprised by the man in front of him who looks years younger, and…well, brilliant really.

"Never mind that. You look good. Who is _he?"_ Harry says, secretly hoping he is wrong. But he knows Blaise; there's only one thing that could make him look so at ease.

"Muggle actually. Oh don't sputter. You had quite an impact on me, dear."

"Your poor mother."

"She would hardly have been one to judge. I have to go, actually, but the papers. They are here."

To his credit, Blaise does manage a look of remorse when he adds, "Harry, whoever he is, make him work, okay? You do actually deserve it."

With that, Blaise Zabini Apparates out of his life, and Harry Potter isn't sure he has ever felt freer.


	4. Four

Chapter Four:

* * *

Three days. It has been three days since Draco lost his cool in front of Harry-who he cannot stop thinking of as Harry, no matter how hard he tries. It has also been three days since Harry fucking Potter has been in the pub. It is the longest he has not been at that one table in a month.

Draco has no idea what to do.

Terrifyingly, he thinks he misses the git. And, having nowhere to store that information quite yet, he is treating everyone around him like shit. Even when Ginevra shows up, unbidden, with coffee and cake to check on him, he bites her head off. Everyone is quick to allow it because, well, Katie, and he doesn't argue. Isn't sure how he _would_ argue. What, say, "It's not because my wife and are I separated, it's that Harry Potter has stopped talking to me"? That would do wonders for his sanity and reputation. Yet his arm keeps phantom tingling where he was touched, and he looks up at the door every time the bell rings. He is starting to feel like a first year girl. In Hufflepuff.

Somewhere in the midst of this internal chaos, Katie summons him. He goes, and sits in his own flat, feeling oddly not at home.

Finally, after far too many pleasantries, she starts.

"Here's what I want. But you need to let me finish, okay? Because it's crazy." He nods in agreement, so she continues.

"First. No divorce. Neither of our parents would survive that. So we stay together."

"Katie.…"

"Nope. Still talking. We have conditions. You can decide some more if you want, but here's what I've got; You can have whoever you want. I don't care. Stay here, don't, buy a love nest, whatever. But…I want a baby. Preferably your baby. I know we decided a long time ago not to, but all of that seems to be sort of moot now. So, we can do an open...thing. But I want to stay married, and I want to discuss a baby. AND YES. I know how weird that sounds. Believe me. I've spent this month resetting my boundary for weird. But, I long ago resigned myself to the fact that we are wizards, and therefore our boundary of weird was always a little bit higher than normal. Plus, even among wizards, you and I are such exceptional specimens, and we therefore need our own category. So we make one. A Malfoy category."

Her face is set, her shoulders squared, and she is so very Katie. He can't help but reach over, laughing, to tuck hair behind her ear.

"OK. OK, K."

"And no one else calls you Coco."

"No one else would dare."

They finish their tea in silence, each weighing and processing and reconfiguring.

"Do you know who it is, by the way? Who you want?"

Draco is stunned, silenced, shocked. He hasn't formulated this question into thoughts yet, let alone words. It hangs there, floating above his conscious thought. Want. _Wantneedwant_. "You're not going to believe me," he finally whispers lamely.

"Harry Potter?" Katie says, borrowing his eyebrow quirk and laughing when he looks shocked, "Oh stop. I know you better than you do, dear. He's just your type. I don't blame you. He's always been bit delicious. That whole brooding, self-sacrificing, loyalty thing. So different from you then, so like you now. Makes perfect sense. Besides, something had to set off this epiphany you had."

"Katie-"

"Plus, I talked to Ginny about it."

"Oh, god."

"Oh don't worry. She won't do anything."

"Yes, because Ginevra Weasley has always been the epitome of careful, rational thought. She's a Gryffindor!"

"Woah. Watch it there. No house bashing, remember. So wait, are you seriously agreeing to this?"

"Kathryn Bell Malfoy, why wouldn't I?" Draco replied in earnest, taking his hand. "It is a brilliant, archaic, and time-honoured tradition for a pure blood man to have a beard. And I love that _you_ thought of it. So yes, I am agreeing to 'this'. I do love you, you know. We might as well see what happens."

-XxX-

Harry has been sitting, just sitting, on his now rarely used couch since he got home from work. He's rather at a loss about what to do, vaguely thinking he should eat something, but not really bothering to move. He momentarily considers going to see Gin and Neville, but remembers that the twins are home, and isn't sure if he can handle "whole family times" right now. Hermione and Ron have taken the kids to visit Hermione's American family for the whole Easter break. In fact, all of his friends are ridiculously busy, and he can't believe how alone he feels. And it is not helping that he is avoiding the pub.

"Huh, I think maybe I have a problem," he admits to open air. He is talking out loud to no one again, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he misses Draco Malfoy desperately (though he's not sure he can admit that out loud). "Okay, so more than one problem."

He isn't sure he was this sad the last time he liked someone, and he is positive that he was significantly less confused. Which is ridiculous, considering last time, he had only just worked out that he was gay, and that not all Slytherins were inherently evil, and that there could be a slight chance that they were not all who they had been at eleven. He should definitely be having an easier time recognising his own emotions right now, and instead, he was a bundle of complete mess. His marriage had fallen apart, and he couldn't even properly deal with _that_. Instead, he was getting drunk and trying not to like Draco is just getting ready to right and properly wallow in how pathetic he is, when there is a knock at the front door.

A knock. Thoroughly confused, he makes his way into the entryway. No one he knows even uses the front door, let alone knocks, and the house is hidden from muggles. Wand surreptitiously at the ready, he wrenches the rarely used door open.

"You can have it. I'll sell it to you."

"Draco, what are you doing here," he murmurs in reply. He knows he's not hiding his shock, or his blush, very well, but at least he hasn't drawn his wand. He thinks that is improvement.

"Look, I'm…sorry, about before. But, you can have the freaking pub. Whatever."

"Oh yea, because this is totally about the pub," Harry lets out an exasperated sigh and steps inside, leaving the door open as he steps back into the entryway.

"What the fuck do you want from me, Potter?"

"I don't know Malfoy, but do you? What aren't you saying? I have now heard stories from every point in your life. We were proper talking, like actual friends, and then suddenly, the fucking wall is back up, just like we are 10! I honestly don't know what it is about me; more importantly, I don't know why I bothered, except Ginny and Katie, they always say how different you are. I was trying to give you the chance to...I dunno, explain?"

Draco just stood there, arms across his chest, not looking at Harry.

"So what is it?" Harry presses on. "Why did you and Katie split? What is so secret that you can't-"

"I'm gay! Okay, Harry? Is that enough for you? Happy now that you have all the information? I had a realisation, I told Katie, it has..impacted our relationship."

Harry stands in stunned silence for a fraction of a minute, vaguely bristling at the use of his first name, as silver grey eyes dare him to do something. And his resolve frizzles away. His fingers twitch and he is suddenly very aware of every nerve ending. He _is _going to act, and he is positive that it will be inadvisable, reckless, and potentially painful.

"A realisation," he whispers. "What do you mean?"

Draco looks shocked, somehow not having realised the direction he was taking this conversation, and he wants to back pedal, looks away before mumbling, "I saw you and Blaise at the legacy game."

And the image snaps Harry's carefully constructed self-control. Self-control that hasn't ever really been much to speak of anyways. Self-control that has been disappearing slowly with changing views, openly given stories of a different man living a normal life. Stories combined with soft blond hair, grey eyes, and beautiful, electric blushes after innocent touches. In his typical manner, he is at a loss for words. He simply has to _do_ something.

He closes the narrow gap between them, pushing Draco roughly against the wall. In shock, Draco's hand goes up to either defend himself or push loose hair out of his eyes, but Harry lightly catches his wrist, Auror reflexes still in hyperdrive from the door knock. He drags Draco's arm up the wall, pinning his hand above his head, face and lips ghosting as he stares into shocked silver eyes. Lacing fingers together, he tries to decide what he wants, what to do now that he's here.

Ducking his head till he is nearly touching the other man's ear, whispers, "And how long did you watch, Draco?"

Unable to ignore the animalistic whine that Draco allows, Harry kisses him roughly, stubble dragging on stubble, pushing, questioning. He had meant to be gentle at the outset, to not scare the Malfoy away again, but he can't seem to stop himself from pushing his tongue against slightly parted lips, and is shocked when he is allowed entry. Draco doesn't taste the way he thought he would, and he doesn't taste anything like Blaise. His mouth is slightly spicy, like cinnamon, and Harry can't seem to stop tasting. For a moment, Draco seems to be pushing away, but Harry realises that he is trying to squirm his other arm into Harry's hair. Some deep, base need to be in charge, to keep in control, takes over and Harry pushes back, dragging Draco's other hand above his head as well as he deepens the kiss.

Dragging himself away for breath, he releases Draco's arm and pulls roughly at the other man's hair, eliciting a sharp breath of _pleasurepain_ as he kisses him over jaw and neck.

"Do you want me to show you what Blaise was doing, Draco?" Harry's voice is so deep, so rough, he shocks himself, and he is not surprised to hear the man above him moan again.

Draco has no idea what is happening. He has no idea how they have gotten here, to this place. When he had asked Ginevra if she could take a message to Potter, she had merely laughed in his face and given him this address. It had still taken three more days to get the courage to go and apologise. Nowhere in his careful reasoning had _this_ come up, because why would it?

Now that he's here, he isn't sure what to do; his brain has shut down, and all screaming protests that he felt at first have disappeared, had been replaced with _fuckyeswant_. Need. And he returns Harry's hair tug, as the man bends while pulling at belts and buttons, unveiling his now hard length and making him twitch at the cold, exposed feeling. He hears Harry chuckle, and can't even figure out how to be annoyed, the sound seems so erotic now.

"You really are beautiful," Harry mutters from somewhere by his waist.

But he has no time to process this sentence because suddenly his cock is enveloped in moist, delicious heat, as Harry grips the base of his cock with firm fingers, his other hand grasping Draco's arse cheek, just as he had seen Blasie do, steadying him and holding him upright. The lick Harry drags up his length hits his spine and forces his eyes to roll back as a moan escapes, echoing in the vaulted ceiling. Sucking, licking, taking him entirely and deeply, but painfully slowly, and Draco cannot stop his hips from rocking into Harry's mouth, his hands still tangled and pulling painfully on permanently messy hair. Encouraged, Harry begins following his mouth with his hand, then cupping balls, moving faster and surer, until Draco shudders from the deepest part of his spine, and releases, throwing his head back and groaning loudly, just as Harry had that day at Hogwarts, and Harry is swallowing, and moving, and gripping his own, thrusting once, twice, three times before he too is gone.

Draco, unable to stand any longer, slinks down against the wall, and confusingly stares straight ahead as Harry takes his forearm, tracing light fingers over the fading mark there.

"Fuck, Potter."

Harry smirks, "Surely, its Harry now."

They sit, unmoving, not looking at each other, not even breathing too loudly. Draco is confused, and terrified. He feels like some cavern has opened between them, and they can definitely never go back. And worse, he has himself convinced that what just happened is the result of Harry's loneliness, and that any second, he's going to regret it and kick Draco out.

Just when he is sure he is going to just pick himself up and walk out of the house without saying another word, Harry whispers, "I would've thought this would have faded more."

Draco gently pulls his arm away, stands, and moves to the other wall, perching on the small table. "There's an incantation. But…I don't know it. My father wouldn't tell me. Anyways, I like that it's there. It reminds me."

"Reminds you of what? That you were a product of your parents? That you got dragged into the evil? Why would you want a memory of that time?"

"It's a reminder of how far I have come."

"Draco.…"

Harry can't say why it is, but something about this man is new, delicate, and hurting, and he wants nothing more than to make it better. He gets up unsteadily, and before the blond can process what is happening, he has a Potter between his legs, holding his face, caressing in a far gentler way than before, moving to pull their bodies together, keeping as much contact as possible. Which is good, because Draco is pretty sure this is what drowning would feel like, and he doesn't remember how to keep his head above water.


	5. Five

Chapter 5

* * *

Harry thinks back to his youth, about how complicated it had been to go from liking Blaise, to sleeping with Blaise, to finding a way to have an actual relationship with him. They were young, and he supposes that is at least partially why he feels like he is in such a tail spin now. He tries to reason that it has only been two months. Two months since he broke off his marriage, since he let his life severe itself, since he left the only man he had ever slept with. Surely, it should be more difficult than this to move on. Nonetheless, he is no longer confused about wanting what he wants.

He has been consumed. Two weeks of seeing, but also being able to touch Draco every day, has completely unglued him. Something about the way Draco looks at him, every time looking as though it's the very first time he has seen him, keeps Harry's heart in his throat. They are so much more similar than he had ever noticed before. Their attitudes towards things highlight Draco's free-thinking, his middling views, the loss of his radical, pure-blood attitudes. He supposes he likely has Katie to thank for that, since Katie is the least pure-blood-y pure-blood he has ever known. Whenever he is not with Draco, he is slightly guilty to be contributing to the unpleasantness that is happening in Katie's life. He can't stand the fact that he might be impacting his friend's marriage. But then, he goes to the pub. And sees Draco. And his guilt seems to vanish in gut-wrenchingly vulnerable eyes, and unyielding, open smiles.

At first, the only change in their normal pub nights has been heated make-out sessions in the back room before they Apparate, separately, home. He feels like he is fourteen, feeling up his boyfriend before his parents turn on the porch light, but he senses that Draco needs to take things slow. He suspects his guilt is likely not vanishing when he sees Harry. Harry, for his part, is trying very hard to remember that Draco, too, has changed his entire life recently. And at least _he _has slept with a man before.

He is rewarded for his patience. Two weeks after the surprise blow job, Harry breaks away from Draco and their heated backroom couch session, needing to go home before he gets desperate. Instead, Draco pushes his shoulders down, reclining them both and reattaching their now perfectly practiced mouths. Mutters "stay" against open lips.

Draco, however, is terrified. He feels like a kid again, fumbling around for the first time (which, he supposes, he is), but he knows, just _knows_ it's right, it's time. And the feeling has very little to do with the fact that he is tired of being left hopelessly hard when he Apparates home to the spare bedroom he has moved into at the flat. Okay. Maybe a little bit because of that. But also because Harry listens with open-minded understanding when he describes the war. Hears and answers his admissions of guilt. Let's him bemoan his lot, all the while understanding more intimately than anyone else can. And at the same time, he makes Draco feel open and lost and passionate and ridiculously hot all the time.

Allowing feeling to take over as he drapes himself fully over Harry, grinding down hips as his bottom lip is bitten, he is rewarded with a heady moan. Harry had been so in charge before, taking control of everything, and Draco's heart thrums in approval at having turned tables. He knows this battle for control is historic, has always been a part of them, and there is something very fitting about it reaching them here. Needing more contact, and skin, he detaches lips, circling hips, erection against erection, before dragging jumper and t-shirt over both their heads, knocking Harry's glasses before removing them fully, drinking in those frigging green eyes.

"Have you always had those eyes? How did I never jump you in school?" Harry whispers.

Draco is shocked to hear his own thoughts reflected back to him, but doesn't have the energy to explain, so instead, he attaches his mouth to newly exposed, beautiful skin, chest and nipples, eliciting moans of approval and fingers in his hair.

"You hated me, remember?" he intones roughly against Harry's skin.

"So stupid," Harry says, hands roaming everywhere, searching for contact. When he had started this, Draco's only plan had been to reciprocate the attentions Harry had given him two weeks earlier. He reaches down, unbuttons ratty jeans, somehow getting them both out of pants too, trailing his head down, but Harry stops him with hands in hair. "No. Need you. You can, if you want."

Understanding without knowing quite how, he shakes his head, "I don't know what to do."

"You're doing pretty well so far. I'll show you."

And Harry's caressing fingers are enough to convince him; Draco falls back on instinct as Harry wraps around him, lifting hips. Curiosity makes him use a finger first. Gasping breath as his unsure finger probes, moving further inside as hips draw him in, and up at Harry's direction, sharp moan and a hasty 'there' as Draco discovers the brilliance of that bundle of nerves. On instinct alone, he grasps Harry's beautiful length, matching his pumping with his finger's rhythm inside, eliciting noisy groans from the man below him. He's so drawn into the sensation himself, his cock throbbing and hot, and he isn't sure he will last, when Harry hisses, "now."

Needing no second urging, and all fear disappearing in sheer lust, he replaces finger with insisting tip, slowly following it with his entire cock, head thrown back at the tight heat, the different, the _fuckingperfect_ enveloping feeling. Pausing to let himself feel, until Harry's insistent hips make him realize that he needs to move, and he looks back down at the perfect man below him, whose legs are holding him tightly, whose lust-blown eyes look straight into his own, and feel like they could reach into his soul. He realizes he is still holding Harry's cock, lets himself stroke it, naturally falling into the same sporadic, increasing speed of his thrusts.

Suddenly, Harry arches beneath him, coming over Draco's hand, head thrown back once more, and either the answering tightening around Draco's cock, the cum on his hand, the groan, or the sight of Harry mid-orgasm has Draco coming at almost exactly the same time. Coming down, his uncertainty returning, he tries to withdraw, until Harry smooths his hand over his thigh.

"Just a second, Draco. Just wait a second," his voice, barely above a whisper, calms Draco's nerves. When he mutters okay, and Draco pulls away, Harry immediately pulls his face down to his, kissing deeply, dragging their bodies together, hands feeling, touching, holding everywhere. Draco finds all his energy has disappeared, and all he wants to do is sleep. He drops his head to Harry's shoulder, gently kissing the space between his neck and head, sighing gently, settling in.

"Why Mr. Malfoy, I do believe you are _nestling_."

"Shhh," he whispers, wrapping hands around the other man, wandlessly expanding the couch slightly to accommodate them both. Rolling over until he is comfortable but not crushing Harry, pulling his 'sleeping in the pub' blanket over them both.

"Impressive. On many accounts."

"Harry...shhh."

"Anything you want, as long as you keep calling me Harry."

Draco is vaguely aware of fingers intertwining before he is asleep.

-XxxX-

Unlike the last time he had woken up in this office, he had a feeling that the Malfoy who was currently wrapped around every possible limb on Harry's body would not hex him upon awakening. Impressed all over again at the wandless transfiguration of the couch, he adjusts his left leg to try and regain some feeling, but doesn't dare disentangle any other part of himself. Not that he really wants to. Taking advantage of his situation, he studies the completely relaxed face before him.

What he finds isn't perfection, but complexity. There are small scars above his eyebrows, the gash on his cheek from the Battle of Hogwarts, the lines around his eyes from the beautiful, unreserved laughter that Harry is just starting to be familiar with, the creases of his mouth that are just starting to define their ages. The evidence all rings true. Draco Malfoy had been happy, for a long time; Harry has learned that this is true, though he supposes he technically had known for a while because of dinners with Katie. It was different, though, hearing it from Draco himself.

He had, more than once over the years, cast a thought back to the younger Malfoy, at how he could have coped after the war. About a friendship which he felt like he had broken. He tried to get Blaise to repair ties, but, in a typically Slytherin kind of way, Blaise wore the slight of Draco missing their wedding as a part of his wounded pride, a grudge he could not let go. The past few years, they had had a few clipped coffees together that had always brought Blaise home in a foul mood. It was a balm to his conscious to know that Blaise's former best friend had not been suffering all those years, especially now that he knew the truth about the things his father had done.

Especially now that he knew they had so much in common. Harry was relatively sure that he and Blaise had never talked as much, as openly, as equally in ten years as he and Draco had in two months. He knew it had something to do with the fact that they were both a bit lost, but still; it made a change to be listened to, instead of just listening.

"Potter, you are thinking too loud. Stop it."

He goes to correct Draco at the use of his last name, but stops mid protest, seeing the mocking smile on his face, the tightening of the arm draped across his middle, the slight nuzzle. Draco is a nuzzler. The fact is surprising.

Laughing lightly, Draco whispers, "You are still as sensitive as you were in school. You really need to learn to take a joke, mate."

"I'm working on it. How are you?"

"Is it normal for everything to feel so…feely?"

"And you're always mocking MY lack of eloquence. Feel-y? You've _had _sex before right?" Harry is rewarded with that beautiful blush. "It's a different set of muscles, yes. Different…sensations, I suppose." Laughing, placing a kiss on the end of Draco's nose, Harry whisper-adds, "just wait till _I_ take _you._"

Shuddering, Draco realizes he needs to change the direction of this interaction before he is affected. More affected.

"We need to talk."

"Mhmm. Now?"

"It'd make me less…stressed."

"Do I have to get up?"

"You move, I hex you."

And when he doesn't move, Draco explains his predicament. The thing that he should have explained before dragging Harry to bed (well, to couch). About Katie's request. About his desire to agree to her request. He can't look Harry in the eye, despite being so connected to him with the rest of his body, despite fingers that never quite stop moving, tracing the Dark Mark, ghosting over his abdomen, distracting yet calming.

"Draco, do you think that this is going to make me run? Draco. Look at me," Harry forces Draco's eyes to meet his own with a hand on his chin. "Our lives have always been weird. Our connection has always been weird. I'm not ready to give up on this quite yet. Not because of that."

"But this? I know this is weirder than most things. Why does everyone else in my life seem to be okay with that? Why doesn't the lack of normal bother anyone?"

"I just threw away my so called 'normal' life because it was choking me, drowning me. I think I can handle a shakeup. The world may have a harder time with it, I agree. Can you see the headlines? 'Potter/Malfoy Love Triangle; Love Potion, or Bizarre Fetish?'. But I think we can handle it. Neither of us are strangers to ridiculous public opinion. I think maybe I understand you more than most."

"Well then. Can't say that I saw that being your reaction. But then again, if someone had told me six weeks ago that I would wake up next to a naked Harry Potter, by choice, I'd likely have sent them to Mungo's."

"You, Draco Malfoy, know it better than anyone; people are not always what they seem."

"And you, Harry Potter, are a big fan of proving that. Think we have a bit more time before we deal with the press?"

Something tells him that they are delving into something terrifying, and that it is altogether welcome.

-XxxX-

They managed to buy five days; five days before the press caught them walking out of the pub. It was as bad as they had anticipated, but somehow, neither Harry nor Draco could seem to make themselves care. Telling their friends, however, proved much more difficult.

Harry was not looking forward to his conversation with Blaise. Katie had taken it well, but that wasn't surprising since she had essentially already known. Ginny had basically just laughed, and made some ridiculous comment about their relationship being 'sort of bound to happen, since you essentially ignored sexual tension all the way through school'. Ron and Hermione had been…well, shocked, but somehow forgiving. He supposed it helped that this wasn't the first time he had brought a Slytherin home. Still, Ron had muttered 'why Malfoy' for about ten minutes, but Hermione had kicked him in the shins eventually, and he seemed to snap out of it. Harry wasn't sure what the hell was going on, but everyone was relatively calm.

And yet. He had to tell Blaise. He knew that he likely already knew, but it wasn't going to make the conversation any more fun.

Rather than angry, Blaise seemed confused. He sat silently for a few moments before asking, "Was there something between you two before? Is that why he didn't come to the wedding?"

"No. I swear. I don't know where this came from. It just sort of. Well...happened?"

"No, it didn't; you fixed him," Blaise said eventually. "You are a fixer. I'm sure something was wrong, and you came in on your hero broom and saved the day. I should know. It's what you did with me."

"Blaise, I am sorry, for whatever it's worth now. I know that things have been weird between you two. And that you always sort of blamed me. Which is fair, really, but to be perfectly honest, I think we may be…fixing each other."

"Well then. How can I argue with that. Especially when I have to ask a favour. Will you help me show Thomas magic? I think I may need to tell him soon."

"Why?"

"Well. Because I love him. I, Blaise Zabini, have fallen for a muggle. Do you think we should have seen any of this coming? You've gone for a Malfoy - your second Pureblood may I add, I think you have a type- and I have found myself in love with a muggle. Even though three months ago, _we_ were married and old and boring to all."

The both laughed, and Harry reached across the table to touch Blaise on the shoulder. He smiled in a strange, sad way, a smile Harry had only seen a few times before. He grasped Harry's forearm, squeezed once, and finished his tea.

"Well, we are nothing if not unpredictable," Harry said carefully.

"I'm just glad my mother is already dead."


	6. Six

A/N: If you have stuck with this one all the way to the end, cheers. I know it required some suspended disbelief, and I really do appreciate it.

* * *

Chapter Six:

* * *

Somehow, this bizarre world they seemed to be living in had simply adjusted to the fact that he was sleeping with Draco Malfoy. With some regularity. Well, with excessive regularity if he was honest with himself. But despite everything, and their burgeoning friendship from before, Harry wasn't sure that they were doing anything else. Which was starting to bother him just a little bit. He had never really been the Friends with Benefits type. He just got too attached, was too fiercely loyal, too (though he hated to put it this way) Gryffindor. Which was definitely starting to be the problem here.

When he woke up next to Draco, his stomach squirmed in approval at the limbs that were inevitably twisted into his, the warm mouth that more often than not was pressed into his neck, the body that held him as closely as possible, possessive and hungry. When Draco woke up too, always after Harry, he looked so vulnerable, so desperately unguarded, that Harry was disarmed every time. For ten minutes, before that veil of indifference returned, before he pushed away and pulled them both apart. And when they weren't in bed, weren't in the throes of what was always passionate, Draco shut down. He never laughed as unreservedly as he did around Ginny. He didn't speak without the well-practiced properness, as he did with Katie. He had even stopped cracking dry, witty jokes. Harry felt as though sleeping with the man had sent him ten steps backwards in actually _knowing_ Draco.

Finally, when he can't take it anymore, he finds himself owling Katie. Meeting her at their flat when he knows Draco is at the bar.

"I know that this is weird. But we have known each other for a long time, and I couldn't think of a better plan."

"Harry, this whole thing is very difficult, but I feel like I should tell you; you don't have anything to worry about from me. I think I'm actually glad it ended up being you. We will work this out, and I already trust you. So what's the issue?"

"It's not that. I know we will. It's just… I don't know what he wants from me. It's all sex. And I don't think I can just do…Katie, I'm sorry."

Katie's face had gone bright red, "No, I'm sorry. I don't think of myself as a prude, given everything, but I think that maybe I am having a hard time knowing that my husband…and you…I always had a crush on you, you know? In school. Which was awkward when we were kids, what with you being so much younger than me. Have you talked to him?"

"Have you ever tried _talking_ to a Malfoy about something he doesn't want to talk about?"

Katie just snorted.

"Exactly. Besides, I can't even work out if he's avoiding the conversation or not. He's so fucking confusing. I'm not used to that. Blaise, Merlin help him, is so transparent. But Draco. When we wake up…sorry, I won't go there again…but he's so snuggly when he is half asleep, and the second he realizes it, it's like we don't even know each other...what?"

Katie was laughing, shaking her head at him.

"Harry, you are so oblivious, Darling. Very smart, and loyal, but very, very oblivious. I haven't seen Draco that much lately, what with all his free time being spent, ahem, otherwise engaged. But when I did, two days ago, I could practically have seen him from space, he was glowing so much. He was whistling in our kitchen. Whistling! Purebloods _do not_ whistle. He's happier than I've seen him in a long, long while. Maybe happier than I have ever seen him. And in a new way, a way I can't quite put my finger on. Less sad, less restrained. I think he underestimated how much he had been holding back. You need to talk to him. And at some point, we all need to talk. We are going to have to actually figure out an arrangement before we start to resent each other."

"I know. You are right. I'm not really sure what I expected you to tell me, but I definitely needed to hear it out loud."

"And Harry, if it helps; Draco Malfoy does not normally snuggle."

"What?"

"I used to have to force him to let me stay next to him for 20 minutes in bed at night, before he rolled away and stayed away. Sleeping and snuggling doesn't sound anything like him."

Unable to come up with anything in response, Harry merely thanked Katie and headed home. And straight into a kitchen with a soft blond head, bustling about, apparently making tea, humming absently to himself. Harry froze in the doorway to the kitchen, Katie's words ringing in his ears. He let out a tiny hitched sigh, which drew Draco's attention to him. Seeing him standing there, Draco hit him with a megawatt smile that took the last remaining sense Harry possessed.

"I was wondering where you were. It's getting late. I came here, and you weren't home yet. Sorry, but I desperately needed tea."

"Draco," pausing to take a deep breath, then thinking the better of waiting, for fear of losing his nerve, Harry rushes into his next sentence, all in one breath, "What is it we are doing, Draco?"

"Seriously Harry, we need to work on your listening. _You_ are standing awkwardly in the doorway, and _I_, as stated, am making tea. Do you want a cup?"

"No, Draco. What are we doing? I just. I don't want."

Shit. He really hated talking. How he managed to forget that until he was in these awkward situations was beyond him.

"Harry, what the fuck are you on about?"

Looking at the floor, crossing his arms and trying to disappear on the spot, he whispers, "I don't want just sex."

Draco, the fucking Slytherin, actually chuckles.

"What?!" Harry says, slightly angry now. "Seriously. What do you want from me. I feel like a teenager. I can't do it anymore!"

When Harry looks up, Draco has closed the gap between them, reaching out to circle arms around his waist.

"Is that what you think? Harry. Silly Harry James Potter. You are really quite clueless. I have never been with anyone but my wife, until you. And I have told you more than I have ever told anyone about the war, and how I feel, and, well, everything. We, dear boy, are not just sex, although frankly, I've been enjoying that as well. I didn't think you wanted to talk about it as an actual thing. Not so soon after...But clearly, that is not true. So."

He pulls away, kneels mockingly at his feet, "Harry Potter, will you be extramarital lover man, and save me from my own unhappiness."

Despite his frustration, the quirked-eyebrow-smirk that is quickly becoming Harry's favourite facial expression on the planet makes him laugh in an embarrassingly giddy way, as he pulls Draco back up, "Well, I think we have to work on that title a bit."

Dragging Draco back against his chest, kissing him roughly and pulling him along as he walks backwards out of the kitchen towards softer playgrounds.

"And you say you don't want sex," Draco tisks.

"Not just sex."

As they finally reach the bedroom, in hurried and clumsy motions, Draco stops Harry's practiced move towards their usual actions. "Wait. I want you to…"

"Are you sure? You don't have to. That isn't what-"

"Want to, Harry. It's time."

"Okay," Harry tries to say, but the word is barely a sound.

Try as he might, Harry is excited. He's been bottom a lot more than he is used to lately, and the change of pace is thrilling. Trying to keep Draco calm, he urges him to turn onto his stomach, telling him to rise to his knees to avoid discomfort on his growing erection. He summons lube from his bedside table, never once releasing Draco from his caress, hands over smooth back, rippled chest, muscles and hair and skin he is beginning to know better than his own. One finger pushing and questing, a sharp gasp from the man below him as he discovers the sensitive bundle of nerves that Draco has become so practiced at finding in Harry. Moans below him give him the sense that he's doing alright, drawing on memory of this same scenario during his first time. When Draco starts thrusting himself on his fingers, Harry decides it's time, pulls them out to protesting whimpers, and replaces it with his own length, slowly pushing inch by inch, never ceasing his caress of Draco with both hands, despite the sharp, pained breaths mixed between ragged breathing elicited from Harry's teasing hand on cock.

"Draco, shh, relax, focus on the good feeling."

He waits, knowing that time is the best answer, despite the fact that Draco is _sotightfucksohot_ and he knows he won't last long. Before long, though, Draco starts pushing against him again, less eager than before, but definitely urging Harry's movement. Knowing that he can trust Draco, he pulls out more than he thinks he should, back again, quickly abandoning any rhythm in favour of going with feeling, knowing he was already losing control, and just hoping against hope he could take Draco with him. Gripping harder than he means, he commands, "Come with me," and is rewarded for his controlling guidance with a deep internal shudder that he feels against his cock, releasing deep inside Draco, answered by slumped shoulders, hot cum on his hand, and Harry moving with him as Draco loses balance and collapses on the bed.

Withdrawing quickly, Harry lets his weight fall onto Draco's stretched out form, snuggling down and relishing in the squirming form beneath him as Draco attempts to get comfortable. They stay like this for countless minutes, breathing out of control despite how quickly they had gone from kitchen to here. Draco's fingers intertwine with Harry's near his head, and he pulls hands against his lips, but says nothing, does nothing else. Harry tries for ages to stay quiet, but as usual, his curiosity gets the better of him.

"Why do you nestle with me?"

"Is it illegal?" Draco is typically almost asleep, and Harry barely hears the whispered response.

"No, but Katie said you don't snuggle."

"Talked to Katie?"

"Hmhmm. So why with me?"

"Safe. So strong...protect-y. Its good. And warm feet. Katie's feet…so cold."

"You make so little sense after. It really levels the playing field, talking-wise."

"Shh, talky man. So much talking today. Sleep time."

Wriggling once more until Harry concedes and rolls over, only to have a sticky, sweet-smelling Malfoy curl into his side, and immediately make good on his promise, already asleep. Smiling, Harry gives up and sleeps too.

Despite the lack of any real change in how they act, Harry can't help but feel gloriously at ease the next day as they stroll, quite late, into Ginny's café. At least he knows where they stand. At least he is aware of what he is. Its confusing, and less than conventional, but he thinks he's fine with this.

Settling down into a corner table while Ginny bustles about helping the three or four other people in the café, they wait in silence, glancing out at the traffic on the street, busy Saturday shoppers in full swing. Eventually, Ginny appears with three coffees, and settles down, sending the charmed, self-filling pot over the counter in her stead.

"Well, you two look very happy. It's super strange. Stop it. No one is allowed to be so happy at our age. It's indecent."

Neither of them respond, smiling simultaneously into dark roast instead. Remaining in the happy silence for a few more moments until Draco suddenly drops his cup back to the table, and sighs expectantly.

"I guess while you're both here, I should explain about the pub…"

"Oh my fucking god. Will you shut up about the bloody pub, you git," Ginny bursts, angry instantly, as she is apt to be. "It's never been about the pub, has it? It's been about Harry? Or you know, something Harry-like at least. You are not going to sell the pub. It was Sev's gift to you, and Sev was more of a father to you than anyone else. Plus, despite what you say, you like it there. It's a part of you, and you are good at running it. Enough. Merlin. Boys."

Grabbing her cup, she storms back to the counter, flaming hair flying as though to punctuate her point, and all Harry can do is laugh.

"Well, she doesn't mince words, does she?" Draco says curtly, picking up his coffee again. Fortunately, he is laughing too. Harry relaxes unconsciously tensed shoulders, and replies.

"It's always been her best feature."

\- XxXxX-

Life, as it does, carried on. Through cups of tea, and months of sleepless nights. Through arguments and mundane nights out, and in. Harry learns to sleep through the oppressive heat of a Malfoy pressed into his every nook. And Draco learns to deal without always talking everything through, learns that actions work better on a continuously confused Potter.

Through the conversation with Katie. Through confusing Bell and Malfoy family events. Through the admission that Draco had slept with her again. Through a pregnancy, and the birth of a Malfoy daughter. Life carried on as though it was all normal.

Because Draco had been there for Harry too. When Blaise and his muggle (Thomas, Harry reminded himself, not "the muggle" anymore) had gotten married, Draco had walked around Harry like he'd been made of glass, until he had found ways to convince him he was fine. And Draco was publicly by his side when they became both became godparents to Ginny and Neville's third child. Draco was there, as icy and intimidating Malfoy this time, when Harry was passed over for promotion, but still had to appear at the appointment of the new Minister for Magic. Draco had stood resolutely behind him during press conference after press conference. He gently woke Harry from ever present nightmares, and kept him sane when his Auror cases became dramatic and painful. It was different than with Blaise, who had never really wanted to be part of Harry's career. This time, he felt more grounded, more on equal footing.

Naturally, the Prophet had had its fun, coming up with far more inventive headlines for the Bell-Malfoy-Potter trio than Harry had managed to dream up himself. But when the magical world had simply shrugged its shoulders, muttered a few "well isn't it nice" comments and moved on, the papers had eventually been forced to move on too. Draco insisted that it was Harry's "golden boy" status that had helped. Harry suspected that it was at least partly because of the lack of reaction from either of Draco's parents, at least in public. They had no idea what Narcissa and Lucius felt about the whole thing, since Draco was still not on speaking terms with either of them. Whatever the case, they had somehow managed to actually secure the new normal that Katie had been planning for them all along.

-XxXXx-

Sometime later, though, when Harry looks around at his very strange little family, he does pause to wonder how on earth he got here.

Audrey cries from her spot on the floor, and Katie looks up from her crossword at the table in characteristic unconcerned concern, and does not jump up at the sight of her frustrated two year old trying to fix a block tower. Katie is an excellent mother. No one is surprised.

He is waiting for Draco, as usual, and has flopped onto his usual chair, idly spinning the wheel of a confusing wizard toy whose purpose he can't even guess. He's so strangely comfortable in the house his lover and his lover's wife occupy, occasionally together. And he didn't know how it had happened.

But he's happy. He and Draco don't make plans. They don't plot a future or try to find ultimatums or labels or caveats. He knows that occasionally, Draco still sleeps with Katie. And somehow, he just can't make himself care. They both hold the same amount of love and respect and trust from Draco, and that seems to be enough. He surprises even himself; he was normally possessive, so terrified of losing what is supposed to be his. But he isn't ever resentful of Katie. Harry reasons that they had all tried the whole 'normal marriage' thing. It hadn't made him happy. It hadn't made Draco happy. They were all more alive, more fulfilled, and at this current moment in time, that could help them work out the tricky bits. Who knew what this would be like when it had been more than three years, or if something difficult appeared. But for now, it was enough.

Weird, but enough.

He looks over at Katie, who has barely looked at him since he arrived, except to yell, "Coco, HP is here." into the other room.

"Katie, we are not normal are we?"

"Nope. Get over it."


	7. Seven

A/N: SORRY IF YOU ENDED UP HERE thinking new chapter. Was doing cleaning and decided this was better as an epilogue. Title is still from O Children, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. I still don't own these beautiful boys. Any characters who seem like they are from Harry Potter, _are from Harry Potter, _and are JK Rowling's playthings, whom I borrowed and plan to return in slightly smuttier conditions.

* * *

**And You Are Only Just Beginning**

There was definitely something wrong with Draco Malfoy. Surely, a man who had seen so much, and lived through most of a war on the scarier side. A man who continuously drank seven cups of coffee a day. Who could watch horror films like he was at the circus. Whose constitution allowed him to ingest all the sugar and never gain a pound. Surely a man like that should not also be able to sleep like he had been given all the best sleeping draughts.

Every. Single. Bloody. Night.

When they had first gotten together, Harry hadn't really seen this side of him. Draco was sort of still a bit of a mess back then. He had woken from the same nightmares Harry had, and his emotional streak ran into the night, occasionally waking Harry up just to make sure that everything was really the way he believed it was, that Harry really did want him there, that he was loved. Adorable, but thankfully short-lived. Harry had been glad when that had ended. At least at first.

Now, the blond man seemed to sleep like he had never had any trouble. He woke up way after Harry no matter what else was happening in the house; whether they were both working, or if they were at his flat or Katie's, whether or not Audrey was downstairs bounding around at six in the morning. Nothing seemed to disturb the Blond Prince's sleep. It really wasn't fair. Because the other side of this coin? Draco woke _Harry _up constantly.

Mostly because Harry didn't sleep through anything. Draco rolling too much woke him. Draco muttering anything at all woke him. He heard creaks that weren't there, was awake if the wind was too loud, or if it started raining (and since they lived in London, it was sort of inconvenient that weather impacted his sleep schedule). He had dreadful nightmares about his past. He woke in a cold sweat, convinced that Draco gone. Or Hermione, or Ron, or Audrey/Teddy/Rose/Hugo. Convinced _he _was back. He was constantly awake when he should have been sleeping, and even though he learned to live with it, and now truthfully needed very little sleep, it didn't make it more fair.

And tonight, Harry decided it was time for Draco to learn his lesson. He didn't get away with sleeping like a baby, clearly having nearly _pornographic_ dreams, when Harry was annoyed to begin with. He was going to pay. If Harry could find a way to wake him up.

He tried shaking him.

"Draco. Wake up."

He tried a stinging hex.

"Draco Malfoy, I swear to God. If you don't wake up, I am going to dump water on your head."

He does dump water on his head. Draco's hand goes up to wipe away the drops, but he turns over and keeps sleeping.

Harry gets mean.

"Draco. Wake up now or I am leaving you."

"Draco. Someone is wearing mismatched robes!"

Finally, desperate, he pulls off the blanket covering Draco's half naked form, and switches to Parseltongue.

"Draco, darling, it is time to wake up, and either stop muttering _delicious _things in your sleep, or make good on those promises you are making right now."

The cold, or the bizarre sound of a different language which usually has Draco both on guard and turned on at the same time, have the desired effect, and Draco stirs.

"Harry, whass wrong…cold. Something happen?"

"You wouldn't know if it DID, you idiot. You were sleep…I dunno…sexting me? Again. It's quite disturbing when you do that. You're just so...descriptive. And Merlin...you know, for someone who grew up under constant threat of Dark magic, you are extremely crappy at self-protection the second your head hits the pillow."

"Why would I bother? I have such a strong man in my bed all the time. He protects me from all the bad guys. Even the ones that are made of wind."

Draco's smirk pisses Harry off more than usual. Mostly, because he's not sure how it has been put so firmly in place only seconds after Draco is awake, but partly because it is also starting to have an impact on things he _so does not want_ right now. It is not helping his attempt to be annoyed. Nor is Draco's 'Submissive' card, which is Harry's weakness; Draco knows this, and even still, rarely allows it to enter the game. They are both a bit too stubborn to give up control like that so easily. Draco is grasping at straws, trying to ease tension, get away with it all.

Not this time, Harry admonishes himself. Annoyed. Angry. _Stay angry_.

"Stop that. I'm pissed off. Don't even start with me. I told you, nothing until you make a bloody decision. I shouldn't have even let you stay here."

"Oh come on, HP, we both know you don't mean that."

"No. I did actually. I'm angry at you. I know you aren't used to that. God knows, no one ever tells you no. Not me. Not Katie. Not Audrey. But THIS is the end. The last time."

He gets up, pushes away from an attempting-to-stroke-him-Draco.

Draco was fully awake now. And sure enough, Harry did _actually_ seem angry. Which was strange, since in the last 12 years, Draco honestly couldn't think of a time when Harry had been angry at him. He got angry, sure, and he ranted the same as anyone else. About his friends, work, politics. There were things Draco did that annoyed Harry (the sleep thing, for instance, had been an issue right from the start. Not to mention the re-organizing the apartment. And the snake). But, that was just what people were like. Harry annoyed him sometimes too, but he knew that Harry had never actually been angry _at _him. It just wasn't his thing. He didn't hold grudges, he didn't latch onto an argument. If he got irritated, he spit something out about it, then moved on. This time, though.

This time, he wasn't that surprised that Harry was still unhappy.

"Harry."

"Nope. Back away Draco Malfoy."

"Haribo."

He had a feeling that if he just kept inching forward, toward a pacing Harry Potter, he would eventually win. He usually did when Harry was trying to resist him. He felt good about his odds. Especially since midnight Harry was relatively easy to turn-on, and because his current flush was probably not entirely due to anger. He finally corners Harry, wraps his arms around him from behind, bodies as flush as possible while still dragging them towards the full length mirror he had years ago forced Harry to buy. Rests his chin on his partner's shoulder, fitting it into the spot he has hollowed out there over the years. He looks at them both; he looks at the way their bodies subconsciously bend to fit each other, the way their aging faces mirror each other. They still look like they belong. Despite Harry's folded arms and irritated expression, which remains resolutely intact despite Draco's best attempt to make him smile. Usually, the eyebrow works, but Harry is currently resolutely attempting to avoid his eyes. In any other moment, his determination would have made Draco laugh; his true Slytherin side appeared when he tried to resist Draco's convincing.

"Look, sweetheart, look how beautiful and distinguished we are, even at our ever advancing ages," Draco whispers, nipping Harry's ear for good measure. "We shouldn't be fighting. It's a disservice to the world. Especially because you are already _this _hard."

Draco's fingers squirm off Harry's hips, running palms flat against thighs, dragging back over erection.

Harry can't deny that particular fact. He blames the erotically mumbled wake-up call, and Draco, and the fact that for whatever reason, his anger is currently spurring him on. So he acts. He whips around, and pushes Draco by the shoulders more violently than he means to. Draco trips, catches himself, falls against the bed, and _fucking purrs_, a disturbingly hot trick he had picked up in the past couple of months. He is so angry at Draco for so much, but mostly, right now, for making him want him as much as he had wanted him all those years ago, on that fucking couch; the couch that now sat in his living room, taunting him every time Draco wasn't there.

"Tell me what you want, Hare, just tell me."

"Shut up, Draco Malfoy. You do not get to talk. Just shut your mouth. And don't you dare gloat; I could hit you."

"Just try it."

Harry can't stop now. He's in the midst of this ridiculous power trip; he's angry, and he's horny, and there is definitely no going back. But he will be damned if Draco gets to win this one. He is going to take what he needs (what they both need), and make no apologies.

He grinds down hard, worrying only about his own need, flipping Draco over, raking nails into his back, hard enough to mark. And Draco, the fucking arsehole, manages to whimper, not in pain, but in ecstasy, because (and Harry knows this), this had been his plan from the moment Harry had woken him up. But he can't bring himself to care now. Taking no more time, needing the release, needing to be over so he can go back to being angry, he pounds into Draco, pushing to the hilt, setting a punishing speed. Even here, even in this moment, there is no need to be gentle; these bodies _know _each other. Harry's body knows what he can do, how far he can push. Draco's body knows how to respond. Even in this fit of angry, punishing sex, their bodies find rhythm and perfection, and it is so irritating to Harry that he gives up on trying to stay calm.

"Draco. Touch yourself."

It's a command. There's no room for misinterpretation, and Draco lifts, one hand steadying himself on the headboard, and obeys. And can't seem to slow down his hips as they return Harry's thrusts, trying to change the angle, trying to find the sweet spot Harry seems to be deliberately missing. They are being extremely loud; some part of Harry's brain is loving that fact, knowing the neighbours can probably hear, knowing that he _sounds_ like he's in power, knowing that he is making Draco cry out, even while not caressing or kissing or touching. He has not been this brutal, possibly ever, not with Draco. A thought in the very farthest reaches of his mind makes him think of his last months with Blaise, but he pushes it away and buries it where it belongs. That was ages ago. When they were in their 20s. Neither of them need that reminder, and he doesn't go there.

Unfortunately, though, it is likely that thought that makes him cave, makes him reach down and join Draco's hand as it fists over his cock when thrusting uncontrollably through his orgasm, what makes him kiss Draco's shoulder blades as he comes himself, hard and fast, shaking him to his core, unravelling him more than an orgasm has in ages, shuddering more than he ever remembers. He refuses to recognize or acknowledge the irritating fact that this angry, midnight fuck has been excellent, excellent sex.

Spent, he hasn't even the energy or control to disentangle himself before he falls into that familiar position of being on top of Draco completely, Draco nuzzling, neither of them that uncomfortable, familiarity taking over their limbs, and putting the puzzle pieces together for them. Draco shifts so that Harry is forced to dislodge, and nuzzles into Harry's neck. He almost acquiesces, until Draco chooses that moment to open his mouth.

"I should have made you angry years ago. You're a much more…efficacious in your dominance when you are pissed off."

Getting up, and stealing his pillow, Harry moves himself off the bed, muttering, "Fuck you and your big words. I'm sleeping in the other room."

He goes to leave, but can't quite manage to get out of the room without the softly muttered, almost silent, "love you" at the door. He knows how much Draco hates it when he leaves in a huff. Somehow, that is the biggest issue he has after the war; when people leave angry, he argues, they never come back. And even as annoyed as he is right now, the fact remains that he doesn't actually want to leave Draco behind. He doesn't want this separation. That, in fact, is the main issue they face.

Still, he does leave, because he doesn't want this conversation at 2:30 in the morning on a Saturday; he doesn't want the argument, or the well-reasoned refusals, or the annoying Malfoy brand of Teflon logic. So he sleeps, undisturbed (fitfully, but undisturbed) in the other room.

Draco, however, is awake. He will not, he is fairly sure, be sleeping again tonight. Not only because the bed is huge and cold and Harry-less. Partly because of that, but partly because he knows that the conversation he had put off last night is a fair one, one they have to have, one he can't quite figure out why he is resisting.

It had started so innocently, with Harry dropping a sentence into their living room silence, while they both read after dinner, idly talking about going out, both knowing they weren't really planning on it; which, in and of itself, was becoming a disturbing trend. They were way too comfortable not needing anyone else. It scared him immensely to realize that he didn't care what parties he was seen at, what social events he missed. Which, he realizes now, is how ended up putting his foot in it when Harry had innocently asked very Harry Potter like questions.

"Did Audrey get her letter? She must be getting excited. Rose and Hugo have been telling her stories about Hogwarts for months."

"She's excited, I think. I'm kind of worried about Katie, but I guess she isn't actually worried about herself."

"Well, I mean, her life is sort of ridiculously settled anyways, isn't it? With Viktor and the team, and everything. Audrey being at school may make things easier. For everyone."

Draco hadn't been sure how to react, and so he'd gone into prey-animal mode. He stayed quiet and didn't move, and waited. And Harry had just looked at him. Also waiting.

"What do you mean, for everyone?"

"Well, okay. Don't freak out. I've been thinking, do you think it's time to reevaluate…everything? Audrey is going to school. Katie is with Viktor. There's no reason to keep up the 'arrangement'. Not really. Should we talk about you only living here now?"

Draco still has not moved. He isn't sure why he is so surprised, but he is. He isn't sure why he is so appalled, but he is. Harry's request is perfectly reasonable, grounded in more logic than he usually displays. And this time, Draco is aware of the fact that he is the one being totally irrational when he mutters no, and nothing more. Harry, to his credit, doesn't actually _do _anything, doesn't start an argument, doesn't push. Which, typically, is what ends up setting Draco off. The lack of wanting to talk things through when Harry is the one who started the conversation in the first place. The willingness to just brush his feelings aside, like he has so stoically been doing for over ten years. So, he says stupid things; stupid, stupid, Draco Malfoy things.

"Well, clearly it's not that important to you, is it? You aren't even willing to have a conversation. So what would the point be in changing everything now?"

Harry had hesitated, not actually moving, echoing Draco's stance of moments earlier, "Draco, I really don't want to argue."

"We were always going to argue about this. Some warning would've been nice. A simple, 'Draco we should talk' during dinner. Not now, when I am finally relaxed. Instead, you blindside me with a veiled conversation starter about my daughter."

"Why is she always 'your' daughter when it's convenient for your argument? I either get shoved aside at the first possible sign of disagreement, or else I get told I have to act responsibly because I am 'essentially her third parent'. Whatever suits you at the time. Besides, I really wasn't trying to corner you, so stop feeling cornered."

"Yes, because that's how it works, according to you. Stop feeling, Draco. Just stop. Well, tell me, _Potter_, what should we do? Move in here? Kick Katie out of her flat? I mean, she can live with Viktor anyways, can't she? And what do we do when Audrey is at home?"

"Draco, don't. It's not like you actually spend any time there anymore anyway. You are here, every night, and we both know that Audrey is not an idiot. She's 11. And she's a MALFOY. She is perfectly aware of what's going on with you and 'Uncle Harry', Daddy's 'friend'. I'm not convinced Katie hasn't explained everything to her, frankly."

"Katie and I talked about it, we agreed not to have a conversation yet. Until we all did it together."

"Yes. A talk you and Katie had, without me. When Audrey was SIX. A conversation had five years ago. And then Viktor appeared, and you never reconsidered. I got shoved into the background. Again. I just want to talk about living arrangements, Draco. Not changing Audrey's entire family. Not throwing anyone out of their homes. What the hell? You know what, though, never mind. I suppose I should have known better than to bring up Change with a Malfoy. I'm going to bed."

"And what do I do, huh? Am I supposed to go, unannounced, to Katie's for the night?"

"See?! You don't even refer to it as your flat anymore. Fuck. Whatever. Do what you want, Draco. You are an adult. I'm not about to kick you out like we are dating, like we are teenagers. Been there, done that, never again. I thought we had agreed on that particular point. If not, you have my _sincere apologies. _Night."

So, Draco had stayed. He hadn't originally planned on going up the bedroom with Harry, trying and failing to stay on the couch, which was just too damned cold. He was Draco _fucking _Malfoy. He was unwilling to sacrifice his sleep. Finally, at around midnight, he had given in and gone up to the bedroom. He thought he had tried as hard as he could to leave Harry's sleeping form alone. He had clearly failed, and now he was paying for it, awake despite his best efforts, and replaying the argument over and over, despite being surprisingly satiated, sticky, and satisfied. Teach him to have the makeup sex before the makeup; they didn't really know the rules, he reasoned.

They really didn't fight.

He gets up and showers, hoping the warm water would soothe him back to sleepiness, but when he emerges, he is simply more awake than before. So, he gives up and makes tea. And draws a giant t-chart on the wall in conjured chalk. Harry hates when he does this in the deep blue paint of the kitchen wall, but he can get rid of the chalk in a flick of the wand, and it helps him think.

Two hours later, he has a whole list of pros and cons on the wall, all referring to the haphazard title of 'No More Pretending?' It's a pretty stupid list, even he can see that.

Having solved nothing at all, he sits with his head in his hands, sighing excessively, dragging his hair so far out of order that he isn't sure it will ever go back to normal. At around ungodly early o'clock, he hears Harry rattling around upstairs. He moves to erase his wall art, but decides to leave it.

"How long have you been here? I got called into work," he says, morning grumpy and mumbling. Harry seems to only then look up and see what Draco is staring at. Sighing his own exasperated sigh, Harry enters the kitchen fully, and Draco prepares for a lecture about drawing on the walls. Instead, Harry picks up the piece of abandoned chalk and writes in full capital letters at the bottom of his Con list:

I, DRACO MALFOY, WILL HAVE TO ADMIT THAT I'M SCARED.

Placing the chalk on the table, and a kiss on Draco's dishevelled head, Harry grabs a banana and his travel mug and heads out the door, work robes slung over his shoulder.

By 9 am, when Harry usually gets back from these early morning calls, Draco has the list memorized, and it rolls around in his now exhausted skull:

_Pro…No more talking about where to spend holidays…No more awkward mornings with Viktor and Katie…Will have Harry to self…All clothes in one place…Con…Have to tell Audrey…Have to deal with colour of Harry's walls…Have no place to hide… I DRACO MALFOY AM SCARED._

He stares at Harry's sloppy writing, messing up the order of his neat lines, his carefully written, curly letters, and thinks how perfect it is that this is the case. Harry is just that; the messy scrawl over his carefully constructed, pretty life. He loves it, and Harry, wholeheartedly, without reserve. He gets up and erases everything in the Con list except the other man's writing.

Really, that is all that is going on here. He is scared. And it's terrifying him that he is so scared, because he really and truly isn't afraid of much. He hasn't been since standing up to his father in the midst of the war. It cured him of his fear. It's why he sleeps so well, why this whole craziness has worked for as long as it has.

Harry is completely right. It makes more sense for him to live here permanently than it does to continue the illusion that he is living with Katie. They don't pretend to be married any more, they haven't for years. When Katie started seeing Viktor, he had stopped going home most nights, only staying once in awhile when Harry was working late, but even then, realizing in the morning that most of the things he wanted were at Harry's already. And there was a very high likelihood that saying it was "for Audrey" was, in fact, ridiculous, since she was brilliant and intuitive. Harry was right. There was no way she was actually unaware of who Harry was to her family, though they had made an effort to keep details of it from her when she was little.

So why was he so scared?

No idea, he tried to tell himself. Just the admission that he was really only Harry's anyway? The loss of the safety blanket Katie had become? Letting go of the first place he had ever felt truly at home, in favour of loving fully the place he called home now? Who knew. Likely all of that and more.

Somehow though, Harry has fixed it without even being here, without really saying anything at all. Just like usual. The git. Now that he has realized, however, Draco makes up his mind. He owls Katie, cleans the kitchen to within an inch of its life, and resolves to repaint everything the second he can convince Potter to let him (he suspects it won't take long, since Harry has never really cared what the apartment looked like, especially once it usually contained a happy, tea-making blond).

When the front door finally opens an hour later, Draco works a quick spell, taking almost everything off the wall, but manipulating Harry's words, and stands with hands in pockets, waiting.

I, DRACO MALFOY, ADMIT THAT I AM SCARED.

"Well, that's one for the history books."

"I want to repaint everything. And maybe buy new furniture."

"You can paint the whole flat lime green if you want to, you foolish old grump."

"Love you too, HP."

"Good."

* * *

Once again, they all sit down over coffee, and the conversation- which ends with Katie laughing at them both and saying, "But what I want to know is, is anything actually changing?"- is so reminiscent of twelve years earlier that they all end up in hysterics, confusing Audrey who comes in huffily from her last afternoon of Muggle school ever. When they try to explain to her, she just shakes her head and mutters something that sounds vaguely like 'old people'.

An impossibly short amount of time later, they spend a weekend buying supplies in Diagon Alley, and Harry splurges on a beautiful tawny owl-whom Audrey dubs Muriel and loves immediately. Early Monday morning, they take Audrey to the train, all three of them (although not, Draco is thankful, with Viktor too.)

It is when Harry gets a tearful hug from Audrey that is just as long and clingy as the hugs to her other two parents that Draco finally gets it; Harry hasn't sacrificed anything. He has been living the same life Draco has. He has been a parent, and a partner, and a family.

"Haribo. Do I have to go today?" Audrey says, just as Harry tries to let go of her hand to usher her to a train compartment.

Draco tries not to laugh, and resigns to stop misusing the nickname for Harry that does not belong to him. Audrey's name for Harry had stuck from very early on, and since they all decided that 'uncle Harry' was creepy, and that calling him any version of 'dad' was confusing, they had all encouraged it to the point where Audrey called him nothing else.

Now, her lip quivers, and Harry looks at Draco with pain on his face. He knows that if Harry had his way, he'd have gone with her, hidden behind his stupid cloak, until he was convinced that she was safe and goes to intervene, but Katie gives a small shake of her head and he pauses instead.

Looking back at Audrey, Harry doesn't even blink, touching his forehead to their daughter's and saying forcefully, "You are going to be fine, Rey. You have Hugo and Rose if something happens, and the Weasley twins are there, although, knowing their mum, I wouldn't trust them too much."

He winks, trying to make Audrey laugh.

"But what if I can't do the spells right? Or I get lost in the castle? Or I'm just not good at being a witch?"

"Sweetheart. Your mum and dad are awesome wizards. There is no way that's going to happen. You were just as scared when you started Muggle school, and you were fine. The castle is so wonderful, you're going to forget us right away. But, if something really isn't going well, you just owl one of us; we will all work it out, together, right away. We are here when you need us, Rey. We love you."

Audrey nods, clearly not believing him fully, humouring him in that way that only children can, and pulls them all in for one last hug as the train whistle blows. Harry does feel bad for her; it feels like not long ago, he was getting on that train for the first time. But he also knows that she is in a much better position than he was. She had grown up with magic, she had friends already at school, and others who were starting with her. And, unlike during his own childhood, he knew that if she owled, he would drop everything and pick her up, despite the fact that Draco would protest at first, arguing that she had to learn to fend for herself.

So he talks her into it. He holds onto her until she is ready, and when she is, she squares her shoulders, lifts her chin, gets on the train, and looks exactly like a miniature Draco. She will be fine. They all will.

Unless Draco makes him repaint the bedroom again.

* * *

So nothing changes. Except in Draco's mind. To him, everything is different. He revels in the fact that he has let himself admit to being only Harry's. It's been true for a while, but he is only realizing now that not actually _telling _Harry has been impossibly unfair.

Elbows up to paint in a pale blue-grey for the living room, he pauses and looks at Harry for longer than he means to, until the other man notices. A man who looks back with a slightly wary, exasperated expression and sighs.

"What? Did I miss a spot? I'm seriously just going to give up soon. You are way too picky."

"Why did you put up with so much, for so long? With Katie and everything?"

Harry doesn't even look surprised. He just shrugs, and responds with what sounds like a rehearsed answer, as though he has been expecting this question for ages. "I love you. Then I loved Audrey. Really, I love Katie too, in a way. You seem to forget that I knew what I was getting myself into, almost right from the start. Stop making it seem like I forfeited something to be with you. I'm really not that noble. I gave up my other life because I wasn't happy. You are my family. The whole lot of you. That's not changing. It was just time for some new living arrangements."

Draco, for once, has no response, and Harry laughs and paints a stripe of blue down his back. Which begins a paint fight and ends with a messy make-out session that takes them hours to clean up.

And no, Draco thinks as he wipes up the last of the paint, I do not feel too old for this.

This, in fact, is perfect.


End file.
